Let’s not talk about how I am. It’s a subject I know too much about to want to think about anymore. — Ernest Hemingway, from “A Way You’ll Never Be,” Winner Take Nothing. (Scribner; 1 edition, January 1, 1966)
I couldn’t believe it: but what I mean by that is that I couldn’t find any room for it anywhere inside me. I had kept it outside me for a long time. I hadn’t wanted to know. — James Baldwin, from “Sonny’s Blues” (1957), Going to Meet the Man. (Vintage; Reissue edition, April 25, 1995)… Continue reading James Baldwin
And if you couldn’t be loved, the next best thing was to be let alone. — L.M. Montgomery
This web of time–the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries–embraces every possibility. We do not exist in most of them. In some you exist and not I, while in others I do, and you do not, and yet in others both of us exist. In this… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own… Continue reading Primo Levi
I’ll read my books and I’ll drink coffee and I’ll listen to music, and I’ll bolt the door. — J.D. Salinger, “A Boy in France,” Saturday Evening Post CCXVII, March 31, 1945.
…all words are masks, and the lovelier they are, the more they are meant to conceal. – Steven Millhauser, In the Penny Arcade: Stories. (Phoenix [an Imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd] December 2, 1999) Originally published 1985.
…and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty, and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin… Continue reading Anton Chekhov
They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desrt of humanity around them to press this insulated pair together? If they should be cruel to one another, who was there to be kind to them?… Continue reading Nathaniel Hawthorne
Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, A Nice Quiet Place. (1930)