Once again I come upon his famous definition of love: two solitudes that protect and border and greet each other.
In a book I am reading the author talks about word people versus fist people. As if words could not also be fists. Aren't often fists.
Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring.
If reading really does increase empathy, as we are constantly being told that it does, it appears that writing takes some away.
If I bring him home though, I swear he’ll spend the rest of his life waiting by the door. And he deserves better than that, don’t you think?’Yes, I think, my heart breaking.
I was not the only one who made the mistake of thinking that, because it was something you talked about a lot, it was something you wouldn't do. And after all, you were not the unhappiest person we kn...
I once heard a stranger in agitated conversation with her pug: And I suppose it's all my fault again, isn't it? At which, I swear, the dog rolled its eyes.
I know this is all moronically anthropomorphic, but sometimes that is the form love takes.
I confess to sudden rages. Walking in Midtown, rush hour's peak, people streaming in both directions, I find myself seething, ready to kill. Who are all these fucking people, and how is it fair, how i...
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