Those who claim to write about something larger and more significant than the self sometimes fail to comprehend the dimensions of self.
You can't learn from remembering. You can't learn from guessing. You can learn only from moving forward at the rate you are moved, as brightness into brightness.
If you think something's happened quickly, you're looking at only a part of it.
Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us - by taking everything
Around you move many seas. It is impossible not to drown a little.
Perhaps all anxiety might derive from a fixation on moments - an inability to accept life as ongoing.
The more you talk about something, the less accurate it gets.
This is suffering's lesson: pay attention. The important part might come in a form you do not recognize.
The only thing I've consistently been interested in in the last twenty-five years is writing very short texts. That continues to interest me as a project, to contain some part of reality, which is chaotic by definition, in a contained space. I like small apartments. I like getting rid of stuff. I went through my files yesterday and spent hours shredding things. It was great.
Experience in itself wasn’t enough. The diary was my defense against waking up at the end of my life and realizing I’d missed it.
The catalog of emotion that disappears when someone dies, and the degree to which we rely on a few people to record something of what life was to them, is almost too much to bear.
I like people who possess either deep mastery or deep empathy, but not as much as I like those who possess both.
The best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know.
My existence shrank from an arrow of light pointing into the future forever to a speck of light that was the present moment. I got better at living in that point of light, making the world into that point. I paid close attention to it. I loved it very much.
Chair or no chair: a binary relation. But the vicissitudes of moving the body around are infinite. You never know what a person in a chair can do.
Look at me, dancing my little dance for a few moments against the background of eternity.
I see no reason not to write whatever comes to me.
I don't write toward a genre, and I try not to make claim to a genre after a book is published. That said, The Guardians isn't poetry. It's prose.
If I'm not writing a thing, depression might be looming.
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