Somehow, the words don’t have any vitality, any life to them, unless I can feel it marking on a paper. That’s how I start. Once I’m off, then I switch to the laptop. I think it would all just be prose if it started on a laptop – not that what I do is poetry.
We are somehow natured, not just to reproduce, but for sociality and even for culture.
When you say ‘I want to be an inspiring leader,’ the operative phrase is ‘I want.’ This is inherently me-centered and self serving whether or not you recognise it. What you are really saying is ‘I want to get people to do what I would like them to.’ Perhaps they don’t want to do that. So you have to somehow get them there.
It is widely assumed, contrary to fact, that theism necessarily involves the two assumptions which cannot be squared with the existence of so much suffering, and that therefore, per impossibile, they simply have to be squared with the existence of all this suffering, somehow.
People are all at sixes and sevens with each other. They’re always quarreling. They never somehow resolve anything.
As a species, we’ve somehow survived large and small ice ages, genetic bottlenecks, plagues, world wars and all manner of natural disasters, but I sometimes wonder if we’ll survive our own ingenuity.
Back when Saddam Hussein was in power, the Americans didn’t care about his crimes. When he was gassing the Kurds and gassing Iran, they didn’t care about it. When oil was at stake, somehow, suddenly, things mattered.
For somehow this disease inheres in tyranny, never to trust one’s friends.
Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.
I always believed that whatever had to be written would somehow get itself written.