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....Worthy would-be worlds of words, whorls of working wonder.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Worthy
Wonder
Working
Words
Would
World
Worlds

More quotes by Jonathan Safran Foer

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Words never mean what we want them to mean.
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There is nothing wrong with compromising. Even if you compromise almost everything.
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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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As I've grown older, I've grown more convinced there's nothing that shouldn't be talked about. If we think we're protecting each other, we're not.
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I made up my mind that nothing,, nothing was going to stop me Not even me.
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I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.
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I took the world into me, rearranged it, and sent it back out as a question: Do you like me?
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A few weeks after the worst day, I started writing lots of letters. I don't know why, but it was one of the only things that made my boots lighter.
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What is suffering? I'm not sure what it is, but I know that suffering is the name we give to the origin of all the sighs, screams, and groans — small and large, crude and multifaceted — that concern us. The word defines our gaze even more than what we are looking at.
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I need an office, so I can have a place where I don't write.
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How beautiful is forgetting! What relief it would be for the world to lose some of its contents.
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I never confused what I had with what I was.
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He promised us that everything would be okay. I was a child, but I knew that everything would not be okay. That did not make my father a liar. It made him my father.
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How did her life live itself without her.
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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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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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But what she was really trying to say was this: I like music better than anything in the world, after you.
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If I’d been someone else in a different world I’d've done something different, but I was myself and the world was the world, so I was silent.
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I said, 'I need to know how he died.' He flipped back and pointed at, 'Why?' So I can stop inventing how he died. I'm always inventing.
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They 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.
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