The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck (Excerpts)

Photo: Amazon

Excerpted from "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck" by Mark Manson

The idea of not giving a f*ck is a simple way of reorienting our expectations for life and choosing what is important and what is not. Developing this ability leads to something I like to think of as a kind of “practical enlightenment.”

No, not that airy-fairy, eternal bliss, end-of-all-suffering, bullshitty kind of enlightenment. On the contrary, I see practical enlightenment as becoming comfortable with the idea that some suffering is always inevitable—that no matter what you do, life is comprised of failures, loss, regrets, and even death. Because once you become comfortable with all the shit that life throws at you (and it will throw a lot of shit, trust me), you become invincible in a sort of low-level spiritual way. After all, the only way to overcome pain is to first learn how to bear it.

This book doesn’t give a f*ck about alleviating your problems or your pain. And that is precisely why you will know it’s being honest. This book is not some guide to greatness—it couldn’t be, because greatness is merely an illusion in our minds, a made-up destination that we obligate ourselves to pursue, our own psychological Atlantis.

Instead, this book will turn your pain into a tool, your trauma into power, and your problems into slightly better problems. That is real progress. Think of it as a guide to suffering and how to do it better, more meaningfully, with more compassion and more humility. It’s a book about moving lightly despite your heavy burdens, resting easier with your greatest fears, laughing at your tears as you cry them.

This book will not teach you how to gain or achieve, but rather how to lose and let go. It will teach you to take inventory of your life and scrub out all but the most important items. It will teach you to close your eyes and trust that you can fall backwards and still be okay.

The Kite Runner (Excerpts)

Excerpted from "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini

In the name of Allah the most beneficent, the most merciful, Amir agha, with my deepest respects,

Farzana jan, Sohrab, and I pray that this latest letter finds you in good health and in the light of Allah’s good graces. Please offer my warmest thanks to Rahim Khan sahib for carrying it to you. I am hopeful that one day I will hold one of your letters in my hands and read of your life in America. Perhaps a photograph of you will even grace our eyes. I have told much about you to Farzana jan and Sohrab, about us growing up together and playing games and running in the streets. They laugh at the stories of all the mischief you and I used to cause!

Amir agha,

Alas the Afghanistan of our youth is long dead. Kindness is gone from the land and you cannot escape the killings. Always the killings. In Kabul, fear is everywhere, in the streets, in the stadium, in the markets, it is a part of our lives here, Amir agha. The savages who rule our watan don’t care about human decency. The other day, I accompanied Farzana Jan to the bazaar to buy some potatoes and _naan_. She asked the vendor how much the potatoes cost, but he did not hear her, I think he had a deaf ear. So she asked louder and suddenly a young Talib ran over and hit her on the thighs with his wooden stick. He struck her so hard she fell down. He was screaming at her and cursing and saying the Ministry of Vice and Virtue does not allow women to speak loudly. She had a large purple bruise on her leg for days but what could I do except stand and watch my wife get beaten? If I fought, that dog would have surely put a bullet in me, and gladly! Then what would happen to my Sohrab? The streets are full enough already of hungry orphans and every day I thank Allah that I am alive, not because I fear death, but because my wife has a husband and my son is not an orphan.

I wish you could see Sohrab. He is a good boy. Rahim Khan sahib and I have taught him to read and write so he does not grow up stupid like his father. And can he shoot with that slingshot! I take Sohrab around Kabul sometimes and buy him candy. There is still a monkey man in Shar-e Nau and if we run into him, I pay him to make his monkey dance for Sohrab. You should see how he laughs! The two of us often walk up to the cemetery on the hill. Do you remember how we used to sit under the pomegranate tree there and read from the _Shahnamah_? The droughts have dried the hill and the tree hasn’t borne fruit in years, but Sohrab and I still sit under its shade and I read to him from the _Shahnamah_. It is not necessary to tell you that his favorite part is the one with his namesake, Rostam and Sohrab. Soon he will be able to read from the book himself. I am a very proud and very lucky father.

Amir agha,

Rahim Khan sahib is quite ill. He coughs all day and I see blood on his sleeve when he wipes his mouth. He has lost much weight and I wish he would eat a little of the shorwa and rice that Farzana Jan cooks for him. But he only takes a bite or two and even that I think is out of courtesy to Farzana jan. I am so worried about this dear man I pray for him every day. He is leaving for Pakistan in a few days to consult some doctors there and, _Inshallah_, he will return with good news. But in my heart I fear for him. Farzana jan and I have told little Sohrab that Rahim Khan sahib is going to be well. What can we do? He is only ten and he adores Rahim Khan sahib. They have grown so close to each other. Rahim Khan sahib used to take him to the bazaar for balloons and biscuits but he is too weak for that now.

I have been dreaming a lot lately, Amir agha. Some of them are nightmares, like hanged corpses rotting in soccer fields with bloodred grass. I wake up from those short of breath and sweaty.Mostly, though, I dream of good things, and praise Allah for that. I dream that Rahim Khan sahib will be well. I dream that my son will grow up to be a good person, a free person, and an important person. I dream that lawla flowers will bloom in the streets of Kabul again and rubab music will play in the samovar houses and kites will fly in the skies. And I dream that someday you will return to Kabul to revisit the land of our childhood. If you do, you will find an old faithful friend waiting for you.

May Allah be with you always.

-Hassan

By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept (Excerpts)

Excerpted from "By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept" by Paulo Coelho


But love is always new.
Regardless of whether we love once,
twice, or a dozen times in our life,
we always face a brand-new situation.

Love can consign us to hell or to paradise,
but it always takes us somewhere.
We simply have to accept it,
because it is what
nourishes our existence.
If we reject it, we die of hunger,
because we lack the courage
t stretch out a hand and
pluck the fruit from the
branches of the tree of life.

We have to take love where we find it,
even if that means hours, days, weeks
of disappointment and sadness.

The moment we begin to seek love,
love begins to seek us. And to save us.

The Alchemist (Excerpts)

Photo: Aila Images

Excerpted from "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho


“The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

'Why do you weep?' the goddesses asked.

'I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.

'Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,' they said, 'for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.'

'But... was Narcissus beautiful?' the lake asked.

'Who better than you to know that?' the goddesses asked in wonder. 'After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!'

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

'I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.'

'What a lovely story,' the alchemist thought.”

Tabitha

Photo Credit: txccri.org

Excerpted from "Amazing Grace For The Catholic Heart" by Jeff Cavins

 Driving down the street headed for the Dairy Queen one afternoon, I could not get Tabitha out of my mind. The tragedy of this young girl’s life played on my mind much like a repetitive song that relentlessly repeats a chorus refusing to leave the brain.

Everyone in Dayton, Ohio where I was working as a pastor at the time, was talking about Tabitha.  Although a mere 13-years-old, she had been arrested for the murder of another teenage girl.  But this was no cold-blooded murderer.  Tabitha wanted nothing more than to put an end to the other girl’s bullying of repeatedly hitting Tabitha on the head with a brick.  When the harassment only got worse, Tabitha went to her older brother for help.

“The next time she tries it,” big brother advised, “Run into the house and get a steak knife.  Then, pretend you are going to stab her but just tap her on the shoulder with it.  That will scare her and she’ll leave you alone.”

When the bullying occurred once again, Tabitha followed her brother’s instructions.  But as she aimed the knife just above the other girl’s shoulder, it accidentally pierced the juggler vein.  With blood spurting out, the injured girl ran screaming down the street. Before she reached the end of the second block, she fell down dead.

The police were called and immediately arrested Tabitha, who was in shock and offered no resistance.  It was a story that the local news sensationalized for days.  The immense tragedy of this accident and its horrifying result on not one, but two victims--the bully and the bullied--played on the minds of an entire community.  “What a shame,” everybody said.  “How sad.”

I was in the business of offering comfort and guidance, but here I was feeling just as inadequate as the next person. The sadness was overwhelming and my helplessness stung bitterly.

As I drove along, Tabitha consumed my thoughts.  Unable to shake it off, I pulled my car to the side of the road and sat contemplating the enormity of it all.  I wondered, if Jesus was in my place, what could He possibly do to help in this situation.   “Lord, what would you do if you were here?” I prayed.

Deep from within my heart I heard these words: “If I was there, I would go down to her prison, wrap my arms around her and say, ‘I love you, I love you.’” The answer was so clear.  As a Christian, I am the body of Christ; I am His arms, His legs, His hands...His voice.

“Lord, if that’s what you want me to do, I will do it,” I prayed.  I turned the car around and headed back into downtown Dayton.  Once I found the jail, I walked up to the front desk.  “My name is Jeff Cavins and I want to see Tabitha,” I announced to a surprised guard.

“No one is allowed to see her,” the guard responded and then paused and gave me a funny look.  “Did you say you are Jeff Cavins?”
“Yes” I answered.
“Did you lead an Emmaus Cursillo retreat for women a couple of weeks ago?”
Again I answered: “Yes.”
 A big smile crossed his face.  “My wife went on that retreat and her life has been changed.”  He thought a moment and then handed me a pen.  “Here, sign this and I’ll take you to see her.”
“Wow!" I thought. "What an amazing coinsidence. God is surely leading the way.“

 We walked down a stark corridor to an empty jail where I was instructed to wait while he went to get Tabitha.  At that moment, the enormity of my actions hit me.  Only 15 minutes earlier I was on my way to get an ice cream cone.  Now, here I was, nervously sitting in a jail cell.  When the door creaked open, in walked a petite little girl, trembling with fear.  I later learned she thought I was there to take her to prison.

 As I looked into her scared brown eyes, I stepped toward her.  “Tabitha, my name is Jeff and I was driving down the road thinking about you today.  I asked the Lord what He would want me to do about you.”  Then, I walked over to her and put my arms around her.  “Tabitha,” I whispered.  “From Jesus:  I love you so much.”  She cried and I held her.  I sensed that I had truly touched her by reaching out and loving someone who the world had discarded.

 Tabitha stepped back and opened her hand to reveal a small, crumpled piece of paper.  She unraveled it and showed me a Christian tract about accepting Jesus as your savior and asking Him into your life.
 “I prayed this last night,” Tabitha said.  “And here you are today.”
 Jesus had come to put His arms around her and say, “Tabitha, I love you.”

 Realizing the Lord had used me to touch this young girl’s life was very emotional.  Although everyone in Columbus knew about Tabitha, no one had come to visit.  It made me think:  What good is it to be the body of Christ unless we are going to act like the body of Christ.  If we would simply act like the body of Christ--be His arms, His legs, His voice--lives would change. Christ is looking to us to do His work if we will simply yield to His will and take the risk of loving others.  Once we do that, at any hour on any day, even on the way to the Dairy Queen, Jesus can use us.

One Solitary Life

Photo: Amazon

Excerpted from Confessions of a Happy Christian by Zig Ziglar


He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman.
Until He was thirsty He worked in a carpenter shop, and then for thirteen years
He was an itinerant preacher.

He wrote no books. He held no office. He never owned a home. He was never
in big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where He was born.
He never did one of the things that usually accompany greatness.

The authorities condemned His teachings. His friend deserted Him. One betrayed Him
to His enemies for paltry sum. One denied Him. He went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed upon a cross between two thieves. While He was dying His executioners
gambled for the only piece of property He owned on Earth-His coat. When he was dead
He was taken down and laid in a borrowed grave.

Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone, yet today He is crowning glory of the
human race, the adored leader of millions of the Earth's inhabitants.

All the armies that ever marched and all the navies that were ever built and all
the parliaments that ever sat and all the rulers that ever reigned-put together-have
not affected the life of man upon this Earth so profoundly as that One Solitary Life!