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The secret was a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing fell into.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Secret
Happy
Thing
Every
Hole
Fell
Holes
Middle

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September 11 had such a strong visual component, the most visually documented event in human history. Nothing's ever been seen by as many people as that was. Our experiences of the day, our memories of the day are just so tied up in images of buildings falling and bodies falling.
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It made me start to wonder if there were other people so lonely so close. I thought about “Eleanor Rigby.” It’s true, where do they all come from? And where do they all belong?
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I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.
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She said, Do you have more things that you need, or more that you don't need? I said, It depends on what it means to need.
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I wouldn't want a boy to think I was pretty unless he was the kind of boy who thought I was pretty.
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I went to the guest room and pretended to write. I hit the space bar again and again and again. My life story was spaces.
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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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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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In truth I was manufacturing a brick wall of shits.
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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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...he enclosed pieces of string that he used to measure out his body--his head, thigh, forearm, finger, neck, everything. He wanted me to sleep with them under my pillow. He said that when he came back, we would remeasure his body against the string as proof that he hadn't changed.
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Nine out of ten significant people have to do with money or war!
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If we were to one day encounter a form of life more powerful and intelligent than our own, and it regarded us as we regard fish, what would be our argument against being eaten?
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It can be challenge enough to have to eat with myself.
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The end of suffering does not justify the suffering, what a mess I am, I thought, what a fool, how foolish and narrow, how worthless, how pinched and pathetic, how helpless.
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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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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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We were quiet on the car ride home. I turned on the radio and found a station playing Hey Jude. It was true, I didn't want to make it bad. I wanted to take the sad song and make it better. It's just that I didn't know how.
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Only someone who'd never been an animal would put up a sign saying not to feed them.
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