I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so muc...
However, The haven-Slocum Theory also points out that this course is not without risk. An even greater number of people dwelling on The Navidson Record have shown an increase in obsessiveness, insomni...
How much [vastly {immensely tremendously}...] Anwar loves [t]his child. It continues to take him by surprise [even when she confounds him with the havoc of her room {for example} which she will proud...
At least when you're drunk, Tom adds, quickly wiping the wet from his face. You've always got the floor for your best friend. Know why?It's always there for you, Navidson answers, his own cheeks sudde...
And this great blue world of oursseems a house of leavesmoments before the wind
We stopped talking about Zampanô then. She paged her friend Christina who took less than twenty minutes to come over. There were no introductions. We just sat down on the floor and snorted lines of co...
There is no such thing as the last straw. There is only hay.
Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even inthe comforts of your own home, you’ll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever livedby. You’ll stand...
Since when did you bring a gun? Navidson asks, crouching near the door.Are you kidding me? This place is .
Please forgive me for thinking faith means certainty.
Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say.Of course those who write short books have even less to say.
Look to the sky, look to yourself and remember: we are only God’s echoes and God is Narcissus.
Les jeux son fait. Nous sommes fucked.
How easily she finds the impossible in the ordinary.
You have to let the water run awhile and even though it remains icy, part of you still refuses to believe it won´t change, especially if you wait a little longer or open up the valve a little more. So...
You got a death wish, Truant?' Which was the thing that scared me. 'Cause maybe I did.
To get a better idea try this: focus on these words, and whatever you do don’t let your eyes wander past the perimeter of this page. Now imagine just beyond your peripheral vision, maybe behind you, m...
There's only one choice now: finish what Zampanò himself failed to finish. Re-inter this thing in a binding tomb. Make it only a book.
Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
One glance at her, even now in the glass of my mind, and I want to take off and travel with her.