But I dig Negroes. I dig them all the way.
But I dig Negroes. I dig them all the way.
I am always sad, I think. Perhaps this signifies that I am not sad at all, because sadness is something lower than your normal disposition, and I am always the same thing. Perhaps I am the only person in the world, then, who never becomes sad. Perhaps I am lucky.
It was not the feeling of completeness I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.
She was with me. She did all of those things and so many more, things I would never tell anyone, and she never even loved me. Now that's love.
We are being very nomadic with the truth, yes?
But I do not do these things because we are family. I do them because they are common decencies. That is an idiom that the hero taught me. I do them because I am not a big fucking asshole. That is another idiom that the hero taught me.
I am doing something I hate for you. This is what it means to be in love.
It would be possible, in theory, for life and art to be reversed.
Suddenly Yankel was overcome with a fear of dying, stronger than he felt when his parents passed of natural causes, stronger than when his only brother was killed in the flour mill or when his children died, stronger even than when he was a child and it first occurred to him that he must try to understand what it could mean not to be alive -- to be not in darkness, not in unfeeling -- to be not being, not to be.
Well, let me leave it at this: if God does exist, He would have a great deal be sad about. And if He doesn't exist, then that too would make Him quite sad, I imagine. So to answer your question, God must be sad.
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.
I could not believe in a God that would challenge faith like this.
It's just that sometimes we make things up just to talk
The animals are those things that God likes but doesn't love.
What do babies dream of? She must be dreaming of the before-life, just as I dream of the afterlife.
Everyone performs bad actions... A bad person is someone who does not lament his bad actions.
I have witnessed Grandfather cry, and I implore myself to say that I desire to never witness him cry again. If this signifies that I must do things for him so that he will not cry, then I will do those things. If this signifies that I must not look when he cries, then I will not look.
Life was a small negative space cut out of the eternal solidity, and for the first time, it felt precious - not like all of the words that had come to mean nothing, but like the last breath of a drowning victim.
The bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive from life is something you have earned.
What? she said once to herself, and then once aloud, What? She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. How did she end up here, like this? How could there have been so much - so many moments, so many people and things, so many razors and pillows, timepieces and subtle coffins - without her being aware? How did her life live itself without her?
Everything I did, I did because I thought it was the correct thing to doà I am not a hero, it is trueà But I am not a bad person, either.
I imagine a line, a white line, painted on the sand and on the ocean, from me to you.
Love itself became the object of her love. She loved herself in love, she loved loving love, as love loves loving, and was able, in that way, to reconcile herself with a world that fell so short of what she would have hoped for.
The end of the world has come often, and continues to come.
With writing, we have second chances.
Everything is to protect you. I exist in case you need to be protected.
I saw Herschel and he saw me and we stood next to each other because that is what friends do in the presence of evil or love.
Memories are small prayers to God, if we believed in that sort of thing.
The Eskimos have four hundred words for snow, and the Jewshave four hundred for schmuck.
Words never mean what we want them to mean.
For how long could we fail until we surrendered?
I used to think that humor was the only way to appreciate how wonderful and terrible the world is, to celebrate how big life is. But now I think the opposite. Humor is a way of shrinking from that wonderful and terrible world.
Once you hear something, you can never return to the time before you heard it.
The horse at the bottom of the river, shrouded by the sunken night sky, closed its heavy eyes. The prehistoric ant in Yankel's ring, which had lain motionless in the honey-colored amber since long before Noah hammered the first plank, hid its head between its many legs, in shame.
You are the only one who has understood even a whisper of me, and I will tell you that I am the only person who has understood even a whisper of you.
From where she is, the page- her paper-thin future-is infinitely heavy.
I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.
One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be family.
The images of his infinite pasts and infinite futures washed over him as he waited, paralyzed, in the present.
Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.
I will describe my eyes and then begin the story. My eyes are blue and resplendent. Now I will begin the story.
Or how he was once found on the well regarded Rabbi's front lawn, bound in white string, and said he tied one around his finger to remember something terribly important, and fearing he would forget the index finger, he tied a string around his pinky, and then one from waist to neck, and fearing he would forget this one, he tied a string from ear to tooth to scrotum heel, and used his body to remember his body, but in the end could only remember the string. Is this someone to trust for a story?
The only thing more painful than being an active forgetter is to be an inert rememberer.
He couldn't bear to live, but he couldn't bear to die. He couldn't bear the thought of he making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn't bear to keep it, but he couldn't bear to destroy it either.
If god exists, he is not to be believed in.
Please be truthful, but also please be benevolent, please.
The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know you are sad.
He invented stories so fantastic she had to believe. Of cours, she was only a child, still removing the dust from her first death. What else could she do? And he was already accumulating the dust of his second death. What else could he do?
In my family, Father is the world champion at ending conversations.
She avoids mirrors, and lifts a powerful telescope to find herself.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories