My secret is that I need God—that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem to be capable of giving; to help me be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love.
I don’t know myself, what to do, where to go… I lie in the crack of a book for my comfort… it’s what the world offers… please leave me alone to dream as I fancy.
They’d told him he had talent. That word was heroin to the young. Talent.
That life – whatever else it is – is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open. And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch.
The answer is dreams. Dreaming on and on. Entering the world of dreams and never coming out. Living in dreams for the rest of time.
Then, without any warning, we both straightened up, turned towards each other, and began to kiss. After that, it is difficult for me to speak of what happened. Such things have little to do with words, so little, in fact, that it seems almost pointless to try to express them. If anything, I would say that we were falling into each other, that we were falling so fast and so far that nothing could catch us.
It’s foolhardy to think that a story ends.
The paradox of education is precisely this — that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.
Tenderness is a deeper instinct than seduction, which is why it is so difficult to give up hope.
This must be the way most of us maneuver through the world, half knowing, half not, visited by memories that can’t possibly be true.