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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.

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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn’t appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.
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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
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It’s a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg’s storytelling skills in American Morons.
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I want to be violated by insight.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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Listen. Look. Desire is a house. Desire needs closed space. Desire runs out of doors or windows, or slats or pinpricks, it can’t fit under the sky, too large. Close the doors. Close the windows.
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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.
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That’s the thing with handmade items. They still have the person’s mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone.
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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…
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Light is good company, when alone; I took my comfort where I found it, and the warmest yellow bulb in the living-room lamp had become a kind of radiant babysitter all its own.
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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We’re all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there’s too much thought and not enough heart.
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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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It seems the best work I do is when I am really allowing the unconscious to rule the page and then later I can go back and hack around and make sense of things.
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To see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
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You’re the perfect girl’, he said, rubbing his chin. ‘You expect nothing.
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I like birthday cake. It’s so symbolic. It’s a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just ‘Happy birthday!’ because it’s this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
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It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
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When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It’s nourishing; it’s rejuvenating.
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The most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
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I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me,
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He was also removing all traces of any tiny leftover parts, and suddenly a ritual which I’d always found incestuous and gross seemed to me more like a desperate act on Joseph’s part to get out, to leave, to extract every little last remnant and bring it into open air.
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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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