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Why are you leaving me? He wrote, I do not know how to live. I do not know either but I am trying. I do not know how to try. There were some things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So i buried them and let them hurt me

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Live
Buried
Trying
Wrote
Things
Leaving
Would
Knew
Either
Hurt
Tell
Wanted

More quotes by Jonathan Safran Foer

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It would be refreshing to have a politician try to defend guns without any reference to the Second Amendment, but on the merits of guns.
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What's so horrible about being dead forever, and not feeling anything, and not even dreaming? What's so great about feeling and dreaming?
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Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living.
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I used to think that humor was the only way to appreciate how wonderful and terrible the world is, to celebrate how big life is. But now I think the opposite. Humor is a way of shrinking from that wonderful and terrible world.
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I didn't intend to write about totems or people searching. I tried not to constrain myself, and this is what I ended up with. There's this great Auden quote: I look at what I write so I can see what I think.
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I try not to remember the life that I didn’t want to lose but lost and have to remember
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Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?
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How did her life live itself without her.
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Food is not rational. Food is culture, habit, and identity.
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It would be possible, in theory, for life and art to be reversed.
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Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.
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While it is always possible to wake a person who's sleeping, no amount of noise will wake a person who is pretending to be asleep.
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I think after you live it's like before you lived.
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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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Writing's funny, it's like walking down a hall in the dark looking for the light switch, and suddenly you find it, flip it on, and then you discover the hallway you passed through is papered with the novel you've written.
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My insides don't match up with my outsides. Do anyone's inside and outsides match up? I don't know. I'm only me. Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and the outside.
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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.
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I often think about how my sons will come to know about September 11th. Something overheard? A newspaper image? In school? I would prefer that they learn about it from my wife and me, in a deliberate and safe way. But it's hard to imagine ever feeling ready to broach the subject without some impetus.
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Can’t you even tell me if I’m on the right track? Buckminster purred, and Dad shrugged his shoulders again. But if you don’t tell me anything, how can I ever be right? He circled something in an article and said, Another way of looking at it would be, how could you ever be wrong?
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She laughed enough to migrate an entire flock of birds. That was how she said yes
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