It's a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.
if you don’t try at anything, you can’t fail… it takes back bone to lead the life you want
Never say anything that doesn't improve on silence.
And do you know a funny thing? I'm almost fifty years old and I've never understood anything in my whole life.
If my work has a theme, I suspect it is a simple one: that most human beings are inescapably alone, and therein lies their tragedy.
No one forgets the truth; they just get better at lying.
Being alone has nothing to do with how many people are around.
if you wanted to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.
Why did everything always change when all you wanted, all you had ever humbly asked of whatever God there might be, was that certain things be allowed to stay the same?
Do you know what the definition of insane is? Yes. It’s the inability to relate to another human being. It’s the inability to love.
You're painfully alive in a drugged and dying culture.
He couldn't even tell whether he was angry or contrite, whether it was forgiveness he wanted or the power to forgive.
The Revolutionary Hill Estates had not been designed to accommodate a tragedy. Even at night, as if on purpose, the development held no looming shadows and no gaunt silhouettes. It was invincibly cheerful, a toyland of white and pastel houses whose bright, uncurtained windows winked blandly through a dappling of green and yellow leaves … A man running down these streets in desperate grief was indecently out of place.
You want to play house, you got to have a job. You want to play very nice house, very sweet house, then you got to have a job you don't like. Great. This is the way ninety-eight-point-nine per cent of the people work things out, so believe me, buddy, you've got nothing to apologize for.
Hopeless emptiness. Now you've said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness.
I'm only interested in stories that are about the crushing of the human heart.
She just happened to feel like it. Wasn’t that after all, the only reason there was? Had she ever had a less selfish, more complicated reason for doing anything in her life?
People did change, and a change could be a bloom as well as a withering.
Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.
A man could rant and smash and grapple with the State Police, and still the sprinklers whirled at dusk on every lawn and the television droned in every living room.
Hard work, is the best medicine yet devised for all the ills of man- and of woman.
What a subtle, treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you've started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying "I'm sorry, of course you're right", and "Whatever you think is best", and "you're the most wonderful and valuable thing int he world", and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people.
Your cowardly self-delusions about “love” when you know as well as I do that there’s never been anything between us but contempt and distrust and a terrible sickly dependence on each other’s weakness- that’s why. That’s why I couldn’t stop laughing about the Inability to Love, and that’s why I can’t stand to let you touch me, and that’s why I’ll never again believe in anything you think, let alone anything you say
Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.
It haunted him all night, while he slept alone; it was still there in the morning, when he swallowed his coffee and backed down the driveway in the crumpled old Ford. And riding to work, one of the youngest and healthiest passengers on the train, he sat with the look of a man condemned to a very slow, painless death. He felt middle-aged.
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