Quote

She maintained a careful balance by her window, never allowing the men to come too close, never allowing them to stray too far.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Men
Maintained
Allowing
Careful
Window
Balance
Close
Come
Never
Stray

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I'm not better than anyone, and I'm not trying to convince people to live by my standards of what's right. I'm trying to convince them to live by their own.
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It was terrible. All of the things we couldn't share. The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.
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It's the tragedy of loving, you can't love anything more than something you miss.
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It would be possible, in theory, for life and art to be reversed.
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Part of living your life is an awareness of the opportunities that can be missed and an awareness that time moves in one direction.
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Every factory-farmed animal is, as a practice, treated in ways that would be illegal if it were a dog or a cat.
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I see myself as someone who makes things. Definitions have never done anything but constrain.
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Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.
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All really great artists, Jackson Pollack, John Cage, Beckett or Joyce - you are never indifferent to them.
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One of the greatest opportunities to live our values-or betray them-lies in the food we put on our plates.
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When we eat factory-farmed meat we live, literally, on tortured flesh. Increasingly, that tortured flesh is becoming our own.
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Love...is the immovability of truth.
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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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Just to be a functioning adult in the world, we develop all of these layers of protection. When we see homeless people, we don't cry, even though homeless people probably deserve our tears - you know, it's a horrible thing.
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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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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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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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The writing itself is no big deal. The editing, and even more than that, the self-doubt, is excruciatingly impossible.
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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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In truth I was manufacturing a brick wall of shits.
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