Bokelskere.no

He found he was a man who repented almost everything, regrets crowding in around him like moths to a light. This was actually the main difference between twenty-one and fifty-one, he decided, the sheer volume of regret.

A life, remembered, is a series of photographs and disconnected short films.

"I was in the hotel," he said finally. "I followed your footprints in the snow". There were tears on his face.
"Okay," someone said, "but why are you crying?".
"I'd thought I was the only one", he said.

Something must linger, a half-life of marriage, some sense memory of love even if obviously not the thing itself. He thought these people must mean something to one another, even if they didn't like one another anymore.

Those previous versions of herself were so distant now that remembering them was almost like remembering other people, acquaintances, young women whom she'd known a long time ago, and she felt such compassion for them.

If you are the light, if your enimies are the darkness, then there's nothing that you cannot justify.

They spend all their lives waiting for their lives to begin.

Yes, it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. It was gorgeous and claustrophobic. I loved it and I always wanted to escape.

We travelled so far and your friendship meant everything. It was very difficult, but there were moments of beauty. Everything ends. I am not afraid.

The more you remember, the more you've lost.