Choke

"I don't want you to just accept the world as it's given," she said.
She said, "I want you to invent it. I want you to have that skill. To create your own reality. Your own set of laws. I want to try and teach you that."
The boy had a pen now, and she said to draw the river in the book. Draw the river, and draw the mountains up ahead. And name them, she said. Noth with words he already knew, but to make up new words that didn't already mean a bunch of other stuff.
To create his own symbols.

It's pathetic how we can't live with the things we can't understand. How we need everything labeled and explained and deconstructed. Even if it's for sure unexplainable. Even God.

The point was, there'd be nothing to this if you were beautiful and sexy.
The point was, in a world where everybody had to look so pretty all the time, this guy wasn't. The monkey wasn't. What they doing wasn't.
The point was, it was not the sex part of pornography that hooked the stupid little boy. It was the confidence. The courage. The complete lack of shame. The comfort and genuine honesty. The up-front-ness of being able to just stand there and tell the world: Yeah, this is how I chose to spend a free afternoon. Posing here with a monkey putting chestnuts up my ass.
And I really don't care how I look. Or what you think.
So deal with it.
He was assaulting the world by assaulting himself.

Art never comes from happiness.