Quote

I could tell that Mom was dreaming, but I didn't want to know what she was dreaming about, because I had enough of my own nightmares, and if she had been dreaming something happy, I would have been angry at her for dreaming something happy.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Something
Nightmare
Would
Mom
Angry
Happy
Tell
Didn
Dream
Nightmares
Enough
Dreaming

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I can't even say 'hair pie,'' I told him, 'unless I'm talking about an actual pie made out of rabbits.
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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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Family are the people who must make you feel ashamed when you are deserving of shame.
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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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He Wrote, Are you OK? I told him, My eyes are crummy. He wrote, But are you OK? I told him, That's a very complicated question. He wrote, That's a very simple answer. I asked, Are you OK? He wrote, Some mornings I wake up feeling grateful.
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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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And also, there are so many times when you need to make a quick escape, but humans don't have their own wings, or not yet, anyway, so what about a birdseed shirt?
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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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Why do I write? It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness.
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Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.
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That’s all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there.
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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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In the water I saw my father's face, and that face saw the face of its father, and so on, and so on, reflecting backward to the beginning of time, to the face of God, in whose image we were created.
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We looked at each other until it felt like everything would burst into flames
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Sadness of not knowing enough words to [express what you mean].
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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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I try not to remember the life that I didn’t want to lose but lost and have to remember
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