I knew he didn't love me, but I adored him anyway.

There's always new stuff, that's for sure.

The dark stone in my heart pulsed quietly, igniting like a coal in a hearth. Who is in my heart? I wondered.

A real prison breakfast" I said. "Yeah, but we are free." And that summed it up.

I craved honesty, yet found dishonesty in myself. Why commit to art? For self-realization, or for itself? It seemed indulgent to add to the glut unless one offered illumination.

A wind picked up and I could feel the sea within it.

I may not know what is in your mind, but I know how your mind works.

All I needed for the mind was to be led to new stations. All I needed for the heart was to visit a place of greater storms.

In my way of thinking, anything is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all.

We seek to stay present, even as the ghosts attempt to draw us away.

My great quandary was what coat to wear and which books to bring.

I was too curious about the future to look back.

Kristus var en v rdig man att g ra uppror mot, f r han var sj lv upproret personifierat.

[W]ithout a doubt we sometimes eclipse our own dreams with reality.

Oh, to be reborn within the pages of a book.

Lost things. They claw through the membranes, attempting to summon our attention through an indecipherable mayday. Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speak. We have forgotten how to listen.

Stories only happen to those who are able to tell them.

It seems to me that I will always be happy in the place where I am not.

When a person is lucky enough to live inside a story, to live inside an imaginary world, the pains of this world disappear. For as long as the story goes on, reality no longer exists.

You're too good for this world, and because of that the world will eventually crush you.

One should never underestimate the power of books.

Libraries aren't in the real world, after all. They're places apart, sanctuaries of pure thought. In this way I can go on living on the moon for the rest of my life.

All men contain several men inside them, and most of us bounce from one self to another without ever knowing who we are.

We all want to believe in impossible things, I suppose, to persuade ourselves that miracles can happen.

It always stimulates me to discover new examples of my own prejudice and stupidity, to realize that I don't know half as much as I think I do.

You can't put your feet on the ground until you've touched the sky.

The truth of the story lies in the details.

Memory is the space in which a thing happens for a second time.

The story is not in the words; it's in the struggle.

We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that's the thread that we follow from one day to the next. People who disintegrate as personalities are the ones who lose that thread.

We have missed him in the sunshine, in the storm, in the twilight, ever since.

But lost chances are as much a part of life as chances taken, and a story cannot dwell on what might have been.

And now we get to the hard part. the endings, the farewells, and the famous last words. if you don't hear from me often, remember that you're in my thoughts.

In the end, each life is no more than the sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own lack of purpose.

Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he’s there, he’s not really there.

Something happens, Blue thinks, and then it goes on happening forever. It can never be changed, can never be otherwise.

Nothing lasts, you see, not even the thoughts inside you. And you musn't waste your time looking for them. Once a thing is gone, that is the end of it.

I walk around the world like a ghost, and sometimes I question whether I even exist. Whether I've ever existed at all.

We find ourselves only by looking to what we’re not.

Dismantling the architecture of my discontent

The pictures do not lie, but neither do they tell the whole story. They are merely a record of time passing, the outward evidence.

Just think it, and chances are it will happen.

But even the facts do not always tell the truth

It's June second, he told himself. Try to remember that. This is New York, and tomorrow will be June third. If all goes well, the following day will be the fourth. But nothing is certain.

What matters is not how well you can avoid trouble, but how you cope with trouble when it comes.

Wounds are an essential part of life, and until you are wounded in some way, you cannot become a man.

As long as there's one person to believe it, there's no story that can't be true.

It was. It will never be again. Remember.

It often happens that things are other than what they seem, and you can get yourself into trouble by jumping to conclusions.

To leave the world a little better than you found it. That's the best a man can ever do.