Is it sad to fancy David Tennant when you're dead?
I sit quietly and think about my mom. It's funny how memory erodes, If all I had to work from were my childhood memories, my knowledge of my mother would be faded and soft, with a few sharp memories s...
I feel like a pink worm in the core of this green room, as though I have eaten my way in and should be working on becoming a butterfly, or something. I’m not real awake, here, at the moment. I hear so...
I want to tell you again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight...
It's terrific, Clare," Henry says, and we stare at each other, and I think, "Don't leave me.
Time is nothing - Henry's Letter to Claire
Now you're making me self-conscious. I feel like every time I blow my nose it's a historic event.Well, it is.She rolls her eyes. What's the opposite of determinism? Chaos.Oh. I don't think I like that...
Listen, sometimes when you finally find out, you realize that you were much better off not knowing.
It's hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays behind.
It's hard being left behind. (...) It's hard to be the one who stays.
I now have an erection that is probably tall enough to ride some of the scarier rides at Great America without a parent.
Each spine was an encapsulated memory, each book represented hours, days of pleasure, of immersion into words.
You're my phantom limb, Mouse. I keep looking for you. I forget. I feel stupid, Mouse. Haunt me, find me, come back from wherever you are. Be with me.
When we were that young we invented the world, no one could tell us a thing.
The pain has receded but what’s left is the shell of pain, an empty space where there should be pain but instead there is the expectation of pain.
The hardest lesson is Clare’s solitude. Sometimes I come home and Clare seems kind of irritated; I’ve interrupted some train of thought, broken into the dreary silence of her day. Sometimes I see an e...
I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow.
Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.
«Io vorrei Dio. Si può?»Mi sento come un cretino. «Certo che si può. È quello che credi tu.»«Però io non voglio soltanto crederci. Voglio che sia vero.»
Why is love intensified by absence?