You see, this happened a few months ago, but it’s still going on right now, and it ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we’re talking about when we talk about love.
I love you, Bro.
The past is unclear. It’s as if there is a film over those early years. I can’t even be sure that the things I remember happening really happened to me.
I want to hide from it, that’s what I want to do. I want to just close my eyes and let it pass by. Let it take the next man.
But dying is for the sweetest ones. And he remembers sweetness, when life was sweet, and sweetly he was given that other lifetime.
Write about what you know, and what do you know better than your own secrets?
I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.
Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
That’s all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
He wondered if she wondered if he were watching her.
Life and death matters, yes. And the question of how to behave in this world, how to go in the face of everything. Time is short and the water is rising.
There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I’d like to know. I wish someone could tell me.
The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places.
And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
This is awful. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.
It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we’re talking about when we talk about love.
Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.