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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.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Terrible
Rooms
Share
Conversations
Things
Weren
Filled
Conversation
Couldn
Room

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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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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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I zipped myself all the way into the sleeping bag of myself, not because I was hurt, and not because I had broken something, but because they were cracking up.
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We are lying to ourselves and to each other. Lying about what? I don't care if we're lying. I am a bad person. I don't care. I don't care what you are.
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I missed you even when I was with you. That’s been my problem. I miss what I already have, and I surround myself with things that are missing.
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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 felt suddenly shy. I was not used to shy. I was used to shame. Shyness is when you turn your head away from something you want. Shame is when you turn your head away from something you do not want.
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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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Only now do I understand the war against boredom, the lost cause of empty hours, of empty days and nights.
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I looked at everyone and wondered where they came from, and who they missed, and what they were sorry for.
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Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living.
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I'm a novelist, I'm not an activist. I'm not a non-fiction writer, I'm not a journalist. I'm not a foodie, I'm not even really an animal person, or an environmentalist. I did the best I could with this, but it's not who I am.
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