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It cannot last, I say, this feeling cannot last, but it doesn't matter. It is here now.
I know that what's said is often less important than the tone of voice in which the words are spoken. There is music in dialogue, mysterious harmonies and dissonances that vibrate in the body
I understood that my friend had whole territories within him I had never known about.
I've often thought that none of us is what we imagine, that each of us normalizes the terrible strangeness of inner life with a variety of convenient fictions.
Secrets can define people.
When we are heavy with emotion, it can be excruciating to speak. We don't want to let the words out, because then they will also belong to other people, and that is a danger we can't risk.
I remember looking at my father lying there, without himself. My dead father was a stranger.
His was an illness that besets the intellectual: the indefatigable will to mastery. Chronic and incurable, it afflicts those who lust after a world that makes sense.
Our memories are forever being altered by the present - memory isn't stable, but mutable.
We're fragmented beings who cement ourselves together, but there are always cracks. Living with the cracks is part of being.