Skip to main content
We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe.

-

How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.

-

I had wanted life not to bother me too much, and had succeeded - and how pitiful that was.

~ Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

He was still too young to know that the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past. -- Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
"But books were different. They had lots of blanks. Blanks between words and even between lines. I could squeeze myself in there and sit, or walk, or scribble down my thoughts. It didn't matter if I had no idea what the words meant." "But books are quiet. They remain dead silent until somebody flips open a page. Only then do they spill out their stories, calmly and thoroughly, just enough at a time for me to handle." "What does love mean?" "To discover beauty." "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to judge you, I just wanted to know your purpose. Your purpose for running." Dora let out a sigh. "To me, that's like being asked, Why do you live? Do you live for any purpose? Let's be honest, we just live because we're alive." "Maybe understanding a language is like understanding the expressions and emotions of other people." "Old books seem all right, though. They have a richer scent that's more a...