Life is Good: When you’re eating an ice cream, you can’t do much else but hit pause and enjoy
JOHN: Putting an ice cream cone in Jake’s hands made us realize that if we just listen to what people love and start putting that on tee-shirts, we might be able to build a business. So what else do people love? Riding a bicycle. Playing the guitar. Let’s celebrate the simple things people enjoy.
BERT: Ice cream is about now. When you have an ice cream, you really can’t do other things. If you try texting, working or multi-tasking, the ice cream is just gonna melt. When you’re eating an ice cream, you can’t do much else but hit pause and enjoy. We sell a heck of lot of tee-shirts that have a stick figure with an ice cream cone in his hand.
[“What I’ve Learned: Life is Good“, Esquire]
Paulo Coelho: The World’s Greatest Lie
OPRAH: So early on in The Alchemist, Santiago is told of the world’s greatest lie. What is that?
PAULO: That you don’t control your life—that there is a system, an establishment, that doesn’t allow you to control anything. You buy into the world’s greatest lie the moment you agree to obey rules that are not your rules. When you say, “I have to.” So many people say, in that moment, “Am I going to be different? Am I going to make people upset? No.”
Robert Henri: All things change according to the state we are in
“All things change according to the state we are in. Nothing is fixed. I lived once in the top of a house, in a little room, in Paris. I was a student. My place was a romance. It was a mansard room and it had a small square window that looked out over housetops, pink chimney pots. I could see l’Institut, the Pantheon and the Tour Saint Jacques. The tiles of the floor were red and some of them were broken and got out of place. There was a little stove, a wash basin, a pitcher, piles of my studies. Some hung on the wall, others accumulated dust on their backs. My bed was a cot. It was a wonderful place. I cooked two meals and ate dinner outside. I used to keep the camembert out of the window on the mansard roof between meals, and I made fine coffee, and made much of eggs and macaroni. I studied and thought, made compositions, wrote letters home full of hope of some day being an artist.
It was wonderful. But days came when hopes looked black and my art student’s paradise was turned into a dirty little room with broken tiles, ashes fell from the stove, it was all hopelessly poor, I was tired of camembert and eggs and macaroni, and there wasn’t a shade of significance in those delicate little chimney pots, or the Pantheon, the Institut, or even the Tour Saint Jacques.”