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I thought for a minute, and then I got heavy, heavy boots.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Minute
Heavy
Minutes
Thought
Boots

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Love...is the immovability of truth.
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Whether we're talking about fish species, pigs, or some other eaten animal, is such suffering the most important thing in the world? Obviously not. But that's not the question. Is it more important that sushi, bacon, or chicken nuggets? That's the question.
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My dream went all the way back to the beginning. The rain rose into the clouds, and the animals descended the ramp.
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I see myself as someone who makes things. Definitions have never done anything but constrain.
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Books are slow, books are quiet. The Internet is fast and loud.
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I'm so afraid of losing something I love that I refuse to love anything
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Also, I designed a pretty fascinating bracelet, where you put a rubber band around your favorite book of poems for a year, and then you take it off and wear it.
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He was someone whom everyone admired and liked but whom nobody knew. He was like a book that you could feel good holding, that you could talk about without ever having read, that you could recommend.
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Murdering someone would surely prove that you are capable of killing, but it wouldn't be the most reasonable way to understand why you shouldn't do it.
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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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I was more alone than if I had been alone.
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Weeks passed like boats waiting to sail into the starless dawn, we were full of aimless endless darkness.
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As a writer, putting words on the page is how I pay attention.
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Highs and lows make you feel that things matter, but they're nothing. So what's something? Being reliable is something. Being good.
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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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She extended a hand that I didn't know how to take, so I broke its fingers with my silence.
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People who become used to saying little become used to feeling little.
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And yet and yet - the last secret of the tree of codes is that nothing can ever reach a definite conclusion. Nowhere as much as there do we feel possibilities shaken by the nearness of realization. The atmosphere becomes possibilities and we shall wander and make a thousand mistakes. We shall wander along yet not be able to understand.
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