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I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness.

Jonathan Safran Foer

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Jonathan Safran Foer
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: February 21
Novelist
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Done
Would
Sickness
Maybe
Anything

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Something having been done just about everywhere just about always is no kind of justification for doing it now.
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Is there really anyone, besides Rudy Giuliani, who prefers the new Times Square?
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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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None of the ways people were talking about September 11 felt right to me. I don't buy into the way George W. Bush talks about it. I don't buy into the way the 9/11 commission talks about it. It isn't that I don't believe them. It's just that they're not the tellings for me.
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I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.
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Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.
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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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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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....Worthy would-be worlds of words, whorls of working wonder.
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Every night before putting her to sleep, Yankel counts her ribs, as if one might have disappeared in the course of the day and become the seed and soil for some new companion to steal her away from him.
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Why do beautiful songs make you sad?' 'Because they aren't true.' 'Never?' 'Nothing is beautiful and true.
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I realized that your mother couldn't see the emptiness, she couldn't see anything...All of the words I'd written to her over all of those years, had I never said anything to hear at all?
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We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.
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Which, then, brings us closer to what we want to communicate: saying what we intend, or trying to say the opposite?
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I regret that it takes a life to learn how to live.
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I went to the guest room and pretended to write. I hit the space bar again and again and again. My life story was spaces.
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How did her life live itself without her.
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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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Weeks passed like boats waiting to sail into the starless dawn, we were full of aimless endless darkness.
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