“Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again.”

There’s no need to talk about it, because the truth of what one says lies in what one does.

I took all the blame. I admitted mistakes I hadn’t made, intentions I’d never had. Whenever she turned cold and hard, I begged her to be good to me again, to forgive me and love me.

Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily.

I asked her about life, and it was as if she rummaged around in a dusty chest to get me the answers.

I tried to talk myself into the state of innocence in which children love their parents. But love of our parents is the only love for which we are not responsible. …And perhaps we are responsible even for the love we feel for our parents.

Bravery is good when the cause is good.

Or is there no such thing as ‘too late’? Is there only ‘late’ and is ‘late’ always better than ‘never’? I don’t know.

I did not know that children think the hard questions they ask are easy and thus expect easy answers to them, and that they are disappointed when they get cautious, complex answers.

When an airplane’s engines fail, it is not the end of the flight.

She was struggling, as she always had struggled, not to show what she could do but to hide what she couldn’t do. A life made up of advances that were actually frantic retreats and victories that were concealed defeats.

As an author, you can’t expect a movie to be an illustration of the book. If that’s what you hope for, you shouldn’t sell the rights.

She was struggling, as she always had struggled, not to show what she could do but to hide what she couldn’t do. A life made up of advances that were actually frantic retreats and victories that were concealed defeats.

Now to escape involves not just running away, but arriving somewhere.

It was more dangerous not to go; I was running the risk of becoming trapped in my own fantasies. So I was doing the right thing by going. She would behave normally, I would behave normally, and everything would be normal again.

…I had to point at Hanna. But the finger I pointed at her turned back to me. I had loved her. I tried to tell myself that I had known nothing of what she had done when I chose her.

Philosophy has forgotten about children

Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again.

What a bog and labyrinth the human essence is… We are all overbrained and overemotioned.

going into a cave might be like going inside one’s own mind, crawling around in the pitch-black, nook-and-crannied labyrinth of the human psyche.

The reader [as well as the main character] does not view the work from outside. He too is in the labyrinth.