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I'm sorry for my inability to let unimportant things go, for my inability to hold on to the important things.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Unimportant
Inability
Sorry
Hold
Important
Things

More quotes by Jonathan Safran Foer

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Most of the times that I think about my relationship to Judaism, I not only accuse myself of a shallowness, but I feel certain that there's a shallowness there. That's not a bad thing, really.
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Instead of singing in the shower, I would write out the lyrics of my favourite songs, the ink would turn the water blue or red or green, and the music would run down my legs.
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I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you.
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Every factory-farmed animal is, as a practice, treated in ways that would be illegal if it were a dog or a cat.
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What were we spending so much time doing if not getting to know each other?
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Hunting will never feed lots of people it will always be a hobby.
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Time was passing like a hand waving from a train that I wanted to be on.
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It was not the feeling of completeness I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.
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I have no need for the past, I thought, like a child. I did not consider that the past might have a need for me.
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I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness.
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Every parent who loses a child finds a way to laugh again. The timbre begins to fade. The edge dulls. The hurt lessens. Every love is carved from loss. Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-children's will be. But we learn to live with that love.
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Abraham responds Here I am when God asks him to sacrifice his son, and he answers Here I am when his son asks him about what is happening. It's a paradoxical moment. He can't be fully present for his God or his son.
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I wanted to touch him, to tell him that even if everyone left everyone, I would never leave him, he talked and talked, his words fell through him, trying to find the floor to his sadness.
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But come. No explaining or mending. Be beside me somewhere.
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And here I am, instead of there. I'm sitting in this library, thousands of miles from my life, writing another letter I know I won't be able to send, no matter how hard I try and how much I want to. How did that boy making love behind that shed become this man writing this letter at this table?
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When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder. Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much.
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I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to shout myself into his ear.
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This brings me back to the image of Kafka standing before a fish in the Berlin aquarium, a fish on which his gaze fell in a newly found peace after he decided not to eat animals. Kafka recognized that fish as a member of his invisible family- not as his equal, of course, but as another being that was his concern.
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...people with nothing to declare carry the most.
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Maybe I'll try to be more patient with morons.
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