Books like The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck

So let’s take that beautiful idea to its logical conclusion and not only leave the past behind but deny the past ever happened. Like this: America is not a land of immigrants. There. Was that so hard to say? It makes sense if you think about it. It feels like we’ve been here forever, doesn’t it? Let’s just assume we have been.

I know it wasn’t the dinner wine that had me against the wall in a fit of remorse. It was the thought of my mother being so lonesome she had to sit on a street bench, so lonesome she missed the company of a homeless shopping bag woman. Even in the bad days in Limerick she always had an open hand and an open door and why couldn’t I be like that to her?

In other parts of the country people tried to stay together for the sake of the children. In New York they tried to work things out for the sake of the apartment.

I’m becoming an angry person with no tolerance for anyone. I’m aware of this shift and yet have no desire to change it. If anything, I want it. It’s armor. It’s easier to be angry than to feel to pain underneath it.

Politicians don’t usually talk about class. It might open a dangerous door. Advertisers want us to believe we’re all one class: the consuming class, equal as long as we keep spending. The rich want us to believe that anyone can make the quantum leap from bowling league to country club by just working a little harder. That’s supposed to keep us motivated and quiet.

Most people are surprised by the way I work. I play it very loose. I don’t carry a briefcase. I try not to schedule too many meetings. I leave my door open. You can’t be imaginative or entrepreneurial if you’ve got too much structure. I prefer to come to work each day and just see what develops.