The mind scolds the heart, which makes excuses and goes its own way.
My mind no longer has romantic abysses, but has become shallow, with many little gaps and cracks.
The avant-garde is now stranded in the past.
The ninety percent of human experience that does not fit into established narrative patterns falls into oblivion.
The intimacy of love absolves us of our guilty separateness.
Perhaps fortunately, no one has ever found out what it would be like to have all his wishes fulfilled.
When my expectations are exactly fulfilled, I feel that something uncanny has happened.
Regretting the past does not prevent me from repeating it.
I regret. I apologize. I blame myself. I continue as before.
Most self-laceration is more noisy than painful.
Regret leads to overeating and naps.
Show enough regret, and your refusal will inspire gratitude.
If I had found the words I was looking for, I would not have read so much.
I read here and there in books, enjoying the examples and ignoring the argument.
Readers transform a library from a mausoleum into many theaters.
Reading about ethics is about as likely to improve one’s behavior as reading about sports is to make one into an athlete.
What I eat turns into my body. What I read turns into my mind.
Avid readers are enchanted by meaning, which is available chiefly in books.
If you do not throw in a few promises of better things to come, gloomy one, I am going to take you back to the library.
The privacy of reading frees us to entertain the alien.