I think he’s trying to preserve our way of life. For who? Us or him?
I think I know who I am. But there’s a part of me that wonders…What if the recollection I have of my real life—husband, father, professor—isn’t real?
I have good intentions, but... But what? But all the time I fail. I hurt the ones I love.
I hate clowns! That’s not a real clown, another boy said. That’s just some guy dressed up like a clown!
I feel the wind in my face as I ride in the bed of an old pickup truck down a country road at night, dust swirling red in the taillights and the entire span of my life yawning out ahead of me. It’s th...
His experience, there was darkness everywhere human beings gathered. The way of the world. Perfection was a surface thing. The epidermis. Cut a few layers deep, you begin to see some darker shades. Cu...
He has made peace with the idea that part of life is facing your failures, and sometimes those failures are people you once loved.
He also carried that whiff of unearned arrogance that seems to cling to those who crave authority for the sheer sake of power.
Every moment, every breath, contains a choice. But life is imperfect. We make the wrong choices. So we end up living in a state of perpetual regret, and is there anything worse?
Devlin and I will take our chances on the run. They rode on in silence, speeding west toward Phoenix now, a massive, distant glow on the horizon, like a city on fire.
But those other realities don’t really exist. Actually, they’re just as real as the one you and I are experiencing at this moment. How is that possible? It’s a mystery. But there are clues. Most astro...
But on a night like this, of a restless mind and dreams of ghosts, time feels secondary to the true prime mover—memory. Perhaps memory is fundamental, the thing from which time emerges.
But after absolute loss, it still continues. What? You. Consciousness. There is life after hope, you know.
Blocks ahead, and he could hear, for the first time, the noise.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in, or walling out.’ Robert Frost wrote that.
At least there was another human being to share the weight of this crushing knowledge.
As the doors closed and the elevator began to ascend, Randall frowned. What’s wrong? Jenny asked. The elevator music. I think it’s a Metallica cover. She listened for a moment, then nodded. I think yo...
And a second thank you to my genius editor, Julian Pavia, who pushed me as hard as I’ve ever been pushed and made this book better on every page.
After everything is taken from you, you see that you still have control over so much. Control over how you cope with misery. You realize all the beautiful choices you still own. Like whether to love o...
Actually, they’re just as real as the one you and I are experiencing at this moment.