Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled.
JONATHAN SAFRAN FOERShe was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.
More Jonathan Safran Foer Quotes
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Not responding is a response – we are equally responsible for what we don’t do.
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Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.
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I wasn’t having second thoughts, but I was having thoughts.
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Do you eat chicken because you are familiar with the scientific literature on them and have decided that their suffering doesn’t matter, or do you do it because it tastes good?
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When I looked at you, my life made sense. Even the bad things made sense. They were necessary to make you possible.
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What does it remember like?
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My life story is the story of everyone I’ve ever met.
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We shared the smile of recognizing ourselves in each other, how many imposters do I have? Do we all make the same mistakes, or has one of us gotten it right, or even just a bit less wrong, am I the imposter?
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She said, “Do you have more things that you need, or more that you don’t need?” I said, “It depends on what it means to need.
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I didn’t feel empty. I wished I’d felt empty. … I wanted to be empty like an overturned pitcher. But I was full like a stone.
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The only thing more painful than being an active forgetter is to be an inert rememberer.
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Not responding is a response–we are equally responsible for what we don’t do. In the case of animal slaughter, to throw your hands in the air is to wrap your fingers around a knife handle.
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He couldn’t bear to live, but he couldn’t bear to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of he making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn’t bear to keep it, but he couldn’t bear to destroy it either.
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I’m so afraid of losing something I love that I refuse to love anything.
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Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?
JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER