Door’s locked,” he said. “And we have unfinished business.
We don't forget, but something vacant settles in us.
Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.
The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.
Painting can feign reality without having seen it.
Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.
. . . language is never innocent.
Whatever else you do or forbear, impose upon yourself the task of happiness; and now and then abandon yourself to the joy of laughter. And however much you condemn the evil in the world, remember that the world is not all evil; that somewhere children are at play, as you yourself in the old days; that women still find joy in the stalwart hearts of men; And that men, treading with restless feet their many paths, may yet find refuge from the storms of the world in the cheerful house of love.
Religion is one tree with many branches. As branches, you may say, religions are many, but as a tree, religion is only one.
I had a picture-perfect childhood. My parents were like June and Ward Cleaver; there was nothing dysfunctional about them.
Maybe Santa Claus is real. Here's the problem: reality.