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But come. No explaining or mending. Be beside me somewhere.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Come
Mending
Beside
Explaining
Somewhere

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I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn’t even matter if I existed at all.
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We need enormous pockets, pockets big enough for our families and our friends, and even the people who aren't on our lists, people we've never met but still want to protect. We need pockets for boroughs and for cities, a pocket that could hold the universe.
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We could imagine all sorts of universes unlike this one, but this is the one that happened.
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Art can be very political but that can't be the purpose of art, it can't be the driving force. It isn't with any of the books that I love, anyway.
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We aren’t exactly emptying the oceans it’s more like clear-cutting a forest with thousands of species to create massive fields with one type of soybean.
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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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I wasn’t having second thoughts, but I was having thoughts.
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It’s much easier to be cruel than one might think.
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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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It can be challenge enough to have to eat with myself.
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Oh, I'd say I like a meal as much as anybody. But I find a certain kind of foodiness silly, gluttonous and embarrassing.
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They reciprocated the great and saving lie--that our love for things is greater than our lover for our love for things--willfully playing the parts they wrote for themselves, willfully creating and believing fictions necessary for life.
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Dear Anna, we will live in a home with no walls, so that everywhere we go will be our home.
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If it weren't my life, I wouldn't have believed it.
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Only now do I understand the war against boredom, the lost cause of empty hours, of empty days and nights.
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Sometimes one simply wants to disappear.
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We shared the smile of recognizing ourselves in each other.
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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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He removed several pages of death certificates, which were picked up by another breeze and sent into the trees. Some would fall with the leaves that September. Some would fall with the trees generations later.
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I have so much to say to you. I want to begin at the beginning, because that is what you deserve. I want to tell you everything, without leaving out a single detail. But where is the beginning? And what is everything?
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