She told him of ship voyages she had taken to places he had never heard of, and stories he knew were all untrue, were bad not-truths, even, but he nodded, and tried to convince himself to be convinced, tried to believe her, because he knew that the origin of the story is always an absence and he wanted to live among presences.
If we communicated with something like music, we would never be misunderstood, because there is nothing in music to understand.
Later that year, when snow started to hide the front steps, when morning became evening as I sat on the sofa, buried under everything I’d lost, I made a fire and used my laughter for kindling: “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!
desperately knocking against the blind little world, i loosened one of its planks, opening a window to a new, wider world. There, spread out, was a profusion of geography, of atmosphere, of full empty air.
In the morning, when the nothing vase casts a something shadow, like the memory of someone you’ve lost, what can you say about that?
The moment before he started was my favorite moment.
So many people enter and leave your life! Hundreds of thousands of people! You have to keep the door open so they can come in! But it also means you have to let them go!
It hurts me when you do not want to hurt me.
I said, ‘I need to know how he died.’
He flipped back and pointed at, ‘Why?’
So I can stop inventing how he died. I’m always inventing.
She said, “Do you have more things that you need, or more that you don’t need?” I said, “It depends on what it means to need.