There is a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere, because it cannot be destroyed.
How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!
Thomas Edison's last words were 'It's very beautiful over there'. I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful.
So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.
It always shocked me when I realized that I wasn’t the only person in the world who thought and felt such strange and awful things.
And imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.
Damn it, how will I ever get out of this labyrinth?
They couldn't bear the idea of death being a big black nothing.
A sensible woman should be guided by her head when taking a husband, and by her heart when taking a lover.
A lover always thinks of his mistress first and himself second; with a husband it runs the other way.
But the lover's power is the poet's power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung.
A physicist is just an atom's way of looking at itself.
Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.
There were so many of us who would have to live with things done and things left undone that day. Things that did not go right, things that seemed okay at the time because we could not see the future. If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can't know better until knowing better is useless.
At some point we all look up and realize we are lost in a maze.
I'm really not up for answering any questions that start with how, when, where, why or what.
The not knowing would not keep me from caring.
What you must understand about me is that I’m a deeply unhappy person.
What is an "instant" death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.
It was a struggle treating Claude Rains as my lover, but we were friendly. It was no great love affair.
People believed in an afterlife because they couldn't bear not to.
People, I thought, wanted security. They couldn't bear the idea of death being a big black nothing, couldn't bear the thought of their loved ones not existing, and couldn't even imagine themselves not existing. I finally decided that people believed in an afterlife because they couldn't bear not to.
I'm not a music lover in the sense that I look for something to have on. I've never had that attitude to music.
The average music-lover hears only the production under prevailing conditions.
There was really no friendship in modeling, though a certain amount of warmth comes from running into models you know on shoots, because you end up in so many unfamiliar places, from Alaska to Africa.
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