Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck is
infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes for peace.
Reading is like thinking, like praying, like talking to a friend, like expressing your ideas, like listening to other people's ideas, like listening to music, like looking at the view, like taking a walk on the beach.
If you're going to say what you want to say, you're going to hear what you don't want to hear.
So everything lets us down, including curiosity and honesty and what we love best. Yes, said the voice, but cheer up, it's fun in the end.
Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better.
Every hundred feet the world changes.
The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.
There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.What twisted people we are. How simple we seem, or at least pretend to be in front of others, and how twisted we are deep down. How paltry we are and how spectacularly we contort ourselves before our own eyes, and the eyes of others...And all for what? To hide what? To make people believe what?
Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.