We are told not to privilege one story above another. All the stories must be told. Well, maybe that’s true, maybe all stories are worth hearing, but not all stories are worth telling.
We live in a world of buy it or leave it. Love does not signify.
You don’t get over it because ‘it’ is the person you loved.
Of course that is not the whole story, but that is the way with stories; we make them what we will. It’s a way of explaining the universe while leaving the universe unexplained, it’s a way of keeping it all alive, not boxing it into time.
She hated being a nobody and like all children, adopted or not, I have had to live out some of her unlived life. We do that for our parents – we don’t really have any choice.
This hole in my heart is in the shape of you. No one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?
Going back after a long time will make you made, because the people you left behind do not like to think of you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.
A curse on this game. How can you stick at a game when the rules keep on changing? I shall call myself Alice and play croquet with the flamingos. In Wonderland everyone cheats and love is Wonderland, isn’t it?
Stories end in reverie, tragedy, or forgiveness.
I have a head for heights it’s true, but no stomach for the depths. Strange then to have plumbed so many.
There is no sense in loving someone you can never wake up to except by chance.
Names are still magic; even Sharon, Karen, Darren, and Warren are magic to somebody somewhere. In fairy stories, naming is knowledge. When I know your name, I can call your name, and when I call your name, you’ll come to me.
In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun.
We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don’t.
If art, all art, is concerned with truth, then a society in denial will not find much use for it.
Birth is a shipwreck, the mewling infant shored on unknown land.
The mind will not believe in death, perhaps because, as far as the mind is concerned, death never happens.
It is only habit and routine that makes the void look like purpose.
Language is what stops the heart exploding.
Life cannot be calculated. That’s the big mistake our civilization made. We never accepted that randomness is not a mistake in the equation – it is part of the equation.