A lot of my past is gone from my mind.
You know, you can steel your heart against any kind of trouble, any kind of horror. But the simple act of kindness from a complete stranger will unstitch you.
What I've come to learn is that the world is never saved in grand messianic gestures, but in the simple accumulation of gentle, soft, almost invisible acts of compassion.
What we know about who we are comes from stories. It's the agents of our imagination who really shape who we are.
Unlike other books or TV shows or sometimes life, my narrative worlds are stripped of implicit moral centers. There is only what you bring. That makes the characters risky in every way and the narrative, a journey of change for the reader. But I make the journey as fun as I can.
The privilege of being a writer is that you have this opportunity to slow down and to consider things.
Sometimes we say we want an end to hate or racism or sexism. But we all participate in keeping these structures alive. If everyone decided to relinquish the past what would happen to people who feel that there hasn't been proper atonement made to them? And what happens to the person who feels that the constant atonement is their identity?
Her beauty was sold for an old man's gold. She's a bird in a gilded cage.
There is no joy without hardship. If not for death, would we appreciate life? If not for hate, would we know the ultimate goal is love? At these moments you can either hold on to negativity and look for blame, or you can choose to heal and keep on loving.
Ross Brawn knows that I prefer to have odd race numbers.
There are moments in history when brooding tragedy and its dark shadows can be lightened by recalling great moments of the past.