What I think is this: You should give up looking for lost cats and start searching for the other half of your shadow.
What matters is deciding in your heart to accept another person completely. When you do that, it is always the first time and the last.
She was hearing everything that went on in his heart, like a person who can trace a map with his fingertip and conjure up vivid, living scenery.
I closed my own jazz bar so I could be a man who can write novels as I like. I was pleased about that. This pleasure was connected to the pleasure of writing.
I think people who share my dreams can enjoy reading my novels. And that’s a wonderful thing. I said that myths are like a reservoir of stories, and if I can act as a similar kind of “reservoir,” albeit a modest one, that would make me very happy.
Everyone, deep in their hearts, is waiting for the end of the world to come.
The most dangerous creature here would have to be me. So maybe I’m just scared of my own shadow.
Why do I act like this, agreeing when I really disagree, letting people force me to do things I don’t want to do?
How many Sundays – how many hundreds of Sundays like this – lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays i didn’t wind my spring.
The best musicians transpose consciousness into sound; painters do the same for color and shape.
The problem was, I think, that the places I fit in were always falling behind the rimes.
I’ve built a wall around me, never letting anybody inside and trying not to venture outside myself.
I think that my job is to observe people and the world, and not to judge them. I always hope to position myself away from so-called conclusions. I would like to leave everything wide open to all the possibilities in the world.
Exhaustion pays no mind to age or beauty. Like rain and earthquakes and hail and floods.
That’s good. I was worried. Of course, I do have a few things wrong with me, but those are strictly problems I keep inside. I’d hate to think they were obvious to anybody else. Especially at the swimming pool in the summer.
The heavy smell of flower petals stroked the walls of my lungs.
Waves of thought are stirring. In a twilight corner of her consciousness, one tiny fragment and another tiny fragment call out wordlessly to eachother, their spreading ripples intermingling.
That’s the kind of death that frightens me. The shadow of death slowly, slowly eats away at the region of life, and before you know it everything’s dark and you can’t see, and the people around you think of you as more dead than alive.
When you are used to the kind of life -of never getting anything you want- you stop knowing what it is you want.
Memory is so crazy! It’s like we’ve got these drawers crammed with tons of useless stuff. Meanwhile, all the really important things we just keep forgetting, one after the other.