We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.
Calling it a simple schoolgirl crush was like saying a Rolls-Royce was a vehicle with four wheels, something like a hay-wagon. She did not giggle wildly and blush when she saw him, nor did she chalk his name on trees or write it on the walls of the Kissing Bridge. She simply lived with his face in her heart all the time, a kind of sweet, hurtful ache. She would have died for him.
We all float down here!
If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it?
French is the language that turns dirt into romance.
Get busy living, or get busy dying.
It was the possibility of darkness that made the day seem so bright.
He who speaks without an attentive ear is mute.
Fiction is the truth inside the lie.
A person can’t change all at once.
The beauty of religious mania is that it has the power to explain everything. Once God (or Satan) is accepted as the first cause of everything which happens in the mortal world, nothing is left to chance…logic can be happily tossed out the window.
People who try hard to do the right thing always seem mad.
Research can only present data about the past. No one seriously believes that people’s answers to hypothetical questions about the future accurately represent their future behaviour; they merely represent a current attitude, which may or may not be translated into future behaviour.
Even people capable of living in the past don’t really know what the future holds.
The past is obdurate.
Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.
It’s best to be ruthless with the past.
When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction.
I once heard about some millionaire who had a stolen Rembrandt in his basement where no one but him could see it. I could understand that guy. I don’t mean that Arnie was a Rembrandt, or even a world-class wit, but I could understand the attraction of knowing about something good … something that was good but still a secret.
If being a kid is about learning how to live, then being a grown-up is about learning how to die.