It was so important to me, I thought it should be important to him. I thought that was love.
It was sad, the imbalance of it all. Why do kids assume so much from one parent and hold the other to a lower, looser standard?
It might seem strange to start a story with an ending. But all endings are also beginnings. We just don’t know it at the time.
Intenta imaginar cómo sería la vida si no contásemos el tiempo.Lo más probable es que no puedas. Sabes en qué mes, año y día de la semana te encuentras. En la pared, o en el salpicadero de tu coche, h...
Inside all humans is the entirety of your memories, the ones you can access and the ones you cannot.
I worked because I could control it.
I wasn't there when you died.That's not your fault.I never said good-bye.Such a needless word, she said, when you love somebody.
I shot you, all right, he said, and you lost something, but you gained something as well. You just don't know it yet. I gained something, too.What?I got to keep my promise. I didn't leave you behind.
I am every age, up to my own.
However, this is too harmonious, grand, and overwhelming a universe to believe it all on accident.
He wrote bite-sized philosophies about living with death's shadow: Accept what you are able to do and what you are not able to do; Accept the past as past, without denying it or discarding it; Learn t...
He mentioned a dear friend Morrie had, Maurie Stein, who had first sent Morrie's aphorisms to the Boston Globe. They had been together at Brandeis since the early sixties. Now Stein was going deaf. Ko...
He could not feel agony. He could not feel sadness. His consciousness felt smoky, wisplike, incapable of anything but calm
Giving makes me feel like I’m living.
First loves often remain in the heart, like plants that cannot grow in sunlight.
Don't be sorry. You're alive.
Do you understand? Why we're here? This is not your heaven. It's mine.
Did you feel guilty cursing God--you, of all people?'No,' he said. 'Because even in doing so, I was recognizing there was a greater power than me.'
By the way, Reb, about the singing. What gives? Walt Whitman sang the body electric. Billie Holiday sang the blues. You sang…everything. You could sing the phone book. I would call and say how are you...
But my father, a thief in many ways, had robbed me of my concentration.