You are your best thing.
Sweet, crazy conversations full of half sentences, daydreams and misunderstandings more thrilling than understanding could ever be.
He wants to put his story next to hers.
I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it.
You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.
If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.
As you enter positions of trust and power, dream a little before you think.
If you are going to hold someone down you’re going to have to hold on by the other end of the chain. You are confined by your own repression.
Something that is loved is never lost.
Anything dead coming back to life hurts.
All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.
If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.
At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.
Me and you we got more yesterday than anybody. We need some kind of tomorrow.
But the picking out, the choosing. Don’t ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it. I saw you and made up my mind. My mind.
You don’t have to love me but you damn well have to respect me.
I dream a dream that dreams back at me.
She is a friend of mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.
Writing is really a way of thinking–not just feeling but thinking about things that are disparate, unresolved, mysterious, problematic or just sweet.
I wrote my fist novel because I wanted to read it.
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