On Giving Up

Our history of giving up – that is to say, our attitude towards it, our obsession with it, our disavowal of its significance – may be a clue to something we should really call our histories and not our selves. It is a clue to the beliefs, the sentences, around which we have organised ourselves. If giving up tends to be the catastrophe to be averted, what do we imagine giving up is actually like?

Boris Johnson has become his own satirist, safe in the knowledge that the best way to make sure the satire aimed at you is gentle and unchallenging is to create it yourself.

An anvil takes nine days to fall from heaven to earth. Most gods bigger than most anvils. Confusing for gods to have bodies at all, a stupidity of the system. Let’s say we give up trying to bind gods to space and time, or even to breathing, which measures space and time, just let their wondrous legs go crashing off over the barrenlands where they do their best work. 

Few of the Roman emperors learned the lesson of their forerunners; and British prime ministers don’t seem to be much better at knowing when to give up.

this 3 for 2 offer     one’s not enough    three you can’t carry / two they won’t let you       the thing is impossible / leave it      give up            give it up

Over the course of his story, Rob learns, very sensibly, to give up on looking for the meaning of life in a Pretenders record, though he still allows himself the freedom to enjoy the music. Which is to say, he is free to give up on it when it starts to bore him and look thin.

My sanity I gave up long ago when I discussed with a friend whether it was preferable to be mad or fat. But I wouldn’t give up writing. At least I don’t think so . . .