Quote

Everything that's born has to die, which means our lives are like skyscrapers. The smoke rises at different speeds, but they're all on fire, and we're all trapped.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Like
Fire
Dies
Skyscrapers
Lives
Speeds
Born
Skyscraper
Means
Rises
Everything
Trapped
Mean
Smoke
Different
Speed

More quotes by Jonathan Safran Foer

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I dreamt four nights ago of clock hands descending from the universe like rain, of the moon as a green eye, of mirrors and insects, of a love that never withdrew. It was not the feeling of completeness that I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.
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Why didn't he say goodbye? I gave myself a bruise. Why didn't he say 'I love you'?
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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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Flea-Market vendors are frozen mid-haggle. Middle-aged women are frozen in the middle of their lives. The gavels of frozen judges are frozen between guilt and innocence. On the ground are the crystals of the frozen first breaths of babies, and those of the last gasps of the dying.
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Sadness of not knowing enough words to [express what you mean].
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Do you think I'm wonderful? she asked him one day as they leaned against the trunk of a petrified maple. No, he said. Why? Because so many girls are wonderful. I imagine hundreds of men have called their loves wonderful today, and it's only noon. You couldn't be something that hundreds of others are.
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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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and i wouldn't say no to something sweet.
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Abraham responds Here I am when God asks him to sacrifice his son, and he answers Here I am when his son asks him about what is happening. It's a paradoxical moment. He can't be fully present for his God or his son.
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I always write out of a need to read something, rather than a need to write something.
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Books are slow, books are quiet. The Internet is fast and loud.
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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.
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I thought for a minute, and then I got heavy, heavy boots.
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This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence?
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August has passed, and yet summer continues by force to grow days. They sprout secretly between the chapters of the year, covertly included between its pages.
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Books are for those without real lives, he thought. And they are no real replacement.
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It is not a thing that you can imagine. It only is. After that, there can be no imagining.
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As a writer, putting words on the page is how I pay attention.
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She wanted more, more slang, more figures of speech, the bee's knees, the cats pajamas, horse of a different color, dog-tired, she wanted to talk like she was born here, like she never came from anywhere else
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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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