Complaints about reality are immature.
I write against violence. I write against fascism. I write against one person dominating another.
There are no beginnings, not even to stories. There are only places where you make an entrance into someone else’s life and either stay or turn and go away.
Everyone who’s born has come from the sea. Your mother’s womb is just a sea in small. And birds come of seas on eggs. Horses lie in the sea before they’re born. The placenta is the sea. Your blood is the sea continued in your veins. We are the ocean – walking on the land.
He said that in a way being loved is like being told you never have to die.
People can only be found in what they do.
Time is light, time is dark. You either dance, or you fall.
They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.
Nothing so completely verifies our perception of a thing as our killing of it.
Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous.
I doubt we will ever be forgiven. All I hope is – they’ll remember we were human beings.
All of this happened a long time ago. But not so long ago that everyone who played a part in it is dead. Some can still be met in dark old rooms with nurses in attendance.
Think of any great man or woman. How can you separate them from the years in which they lived? You can’t. Their greatness lies in their response to that moment.
I still maintain that an ordinary human being has the right to be horrified by a mangled body seen on an afternoon walk.