Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.
There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel no one else has a right to blame us.
…what he has experienced is merely love’s painless presage, the expression without the soul. He wonders if it is a lack within himself. Is there a part of the brain from which love comes that in his case has drastically malfunctioned? The world is awash in love – on the radio, in movies, in the pages of novels. Romantic love is the common cultural narrative, yet he seems immune to it. Thus, though he has yet to taste the pain that comes with love, he has experienced pain of a different, related sort: the fear of facing a life without it.
All his life he had wanted to be known by just one person. That’s what love was, he decided. Love was being known.
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them – words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you where saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.