No, I don’t have the slightest desire to rewrite the past or history or whatever. What I’d like to rewrite is the present, here and now.
From a certain perspective, primitive religion always carries its own associated special aura that emanates from some psychic aberration. In.
The parking lot was packed with cars. Most had come with families. The number of minivans really stood out. All minivans look identical to me. Like cans of tasteless biscuits.
Those kinds of memories – unpretentious, commonplace. But for me, they’re all meaningful and valuable. As each of these memories flits across my mind, I’m sure I unconsciously smile, or give a slight frown. Commonplace they might be, but the accumulation of these memories has led to one result: me. Me here and now, on the north shore of Kauai. Sometimes when I think of life, I feel like a piece of driftwood washed up on a shore.
A spider had no special skill other than building its web, and no lifestyle choice other than sitting still. It would stay in one place waiting for its prey until, in the natural course of things, it shriveled up and died.
How much loneliness the truth can cause sometimes.
In the same way that people stare up at the sky to see the moon every night, yet understand next to nothing about it.
Long after the firefly had disappeared, the trail of its light remained inside me, its pale, faint glow hovering on and on in the thick darkness behind my eyelids like a lost soul. More than once I tried stretching my hand out in the dark. My fingers touched nothing. The faint glow remained, just beyond my grasp.
The world was a vast ocean with no landmarks, Kino a little boat that had lost its chart and its anchor.
Hatred is like a long, dark shadow. Not even the person it falls upon knows where it comes from, in most cases. It is like a two-edged sword. When you cut the other person, you cut yourself. The more violently you hack at the other person, the more violently you hack at yourself.
Human beings naturally continue doing things they like, and they don’t continue what they don’t like.
Sometimes I think I’m empty,” he confessed. The smile still lingered on his lips. “Empty?” “Hollow inside.
His hairline had receded from the forehead and his sparse remaining hair recalled a frosty meadow in late autumn.
There is some risk, of course. But risk is the spice of life.
That’s the most important thing for a sickness like ours: a sense of trust. If I put myself in this person’s hands, I’ll be OK. If my condition starts to worsen even the slightest bit – if a screw comes loose – he’ll notice straight away, and with tremendous care and patience he’ll fix it, he’ll tighten the screw again, put all the jumped threads back in place. If we have that sense of trust, our sickness stays away.
It seemed to her that almost everything she possessed had its roots sunk in that dark soil and was deriving its nourishment from it.
The cook hates the waiter, and they both hate the customer.
Painting portraits for a living had taken me on a wide detour. Somehow I had to get time on my side once again.
People devote a lot of energy to thinking about things. Whether they want to or not. Yet in the end we all just have to wait – only time can tell how events play out. The answers lie ahead.
Naturally there should be a few lessons I should learn. The courage not to fear a change in one’s lifestyle, the importance of having time on your side.