Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled.
Jonathan Safran FoerMots clés memory
I could not believe in a God that would challenge faith like this.
Jonathan Safran FoerIt's true, I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of the world moving forward without me, of my absence going unnoticed, or worse, being some natural force propelling life on. Is it selfish? Am I such a bad person for dreaming of a world that ends when I do? I don't mean the world ending with respect to me, but every set of eyes closing with mine.
Jonathan Safran FoerThey reciprocated the great and saving lie--that our love for things is greater than our lover for our love for things--willfully playing the parts they wrote for themselves, willfully creating and believing fictions necessary for life.
Jonathan Safran FoerMots clés love
She maintained a careful balance by her window, never allowing the men to come too close, never allowing them to stray too far.
Jonathan Safran FoerHe spent the next weeks blocking scenes of the bureaucrat fucking his wife. On the floor with cooking ingredients. Standing, with socks still on. In the grass of the yard of their new and immense house. He imagined her making noises she never made for him and feeling pleasures he could never provide because the bureaucrat was a man, and he was not a man. Does she suck his penis? he wondered. I know this is a silly thought, a thought that will only bring me pain, but I can't free myself of it. And when she sucks his penis, because she must, what is he doing? Is he pulling her hair back to watch? Is he touching her chest? Is he thinking of someone else? I'll kill him if he is.
Jonathan Safran FoerMots clés humor sex marriage affairs
She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.
Jonathan Safran FoerMots clés sadness sorrow suffering mourning grief
He ran the back of his hand up her cheek, with the pretense of wiping away sweat. Do you think you could ever love me?
I don't think so.
Because I'm not good enough.
It's not like that.
Because I'm not smart.
No.
Because you couldn't love me.
Because I couldn't love you.
Mots clés love
But I still couldn't figure out what it all meant. The more I found out, the less I understood.
Jonathan Safran FoerThere are many premium writers, yes? Tolstoy, yes? He wrote War, and also Peace, which are both premium books.
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