Jonathan Safran Foer Quotes

I love the idea of books being more than books, or being, rather, something other than books.

I try not to remember the life that I didn’t want to lose but lost and have to remember

I need an office, so I can have a place where I don't write.

I made up my mind that nothing,, nothing was going to stop me Not even me.

She was not crying Which surprised me very much But I understand now That she had found places For her melancholy That were behind more masks Than only her eyes

I can only hold on to the things I want to lose.

Reality Hunger is more than thought-provoking; it's one of the most beautiful books I've read in a long time.

People who become used to saying little become used to feeling little.

Technology celebrates connectedness, but encourages retreat.

It is my great hope that our paths, however long and winding, will cross again.

[…] but I believe that things are extremely complicated, and her looking over me was as complicated as anything could ever be. But it was also incredibly simple.

We could imagine all sorts of universes unlike this one, but this is the one that happened.

The factory farm has succeeded by divorcing people from their food, eliminating farmers, and ruling agriculture by corporate fiat.

Jed Perl writes precisely and ecstatically. Antoine' s Alphabet is a history and a fairy tale, a work of criticism, and a work of art.

Dear Anna, we will live in a home with no walls, so that everywhere we go will be our home.

Time was passing like a hand waving from a train that I wanted to be on.

I said I kicked a French chicken in the stomach once." "Huh?" "It said, 'Oeuf.'" "What is that?" "It's a joke. Do you want to hear another, or have you already had un oeuf?

We all choose things, and we also all choose against things. I want to be the kind of person who chooses for more than chooses against.

We are lying to ourselves and to each other. Lying about what? I don't care if we're lying. I am a bad person. I don't care. I don't care what you are.

I started carrying blank books like this one around, which I would fill with all the things I couldn't say.

She saw through the shell of me into the center of me

We looked at each other until it felt like everything would burst into flames

How beautiful is forgetting! What relief it would be for the world to lose some of its contents.

Yesterday I wanted to turn inside out.

If it had and answer, it wouldn't really be love, would it?

I got tired, I told him. Not worn out, but worn through. Like one of those wives who wakes up one morning and says I can't bake any more bread.

[...]It is as if after surviving so much, there was no longer reason to survive.

I believed him. I was not stupid. I was his wife.

She wanted nothing more than someone to miss, to touch, with whom to speak like a child, with whom to be a child.

She was so beautiful, like someone who you will never meet, but always dream of meeting, like someone who is too good for you.

Books are for those without real lives, he thought. And they are no real replacement.

Things were happening around us, but nothing was happening between us.

i couldn't speak the language of his feelings

You have to do something bad to do something good.

It was terrible. All of the things we couldn't share. The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.

It’s a rule that we never listen to sad music, we made that rule early on, songs are as sad as the listener, we hardly ever listen to music.

That’s all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there.

In the end, everyone loses everyone.

She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release.

Nothing is beautiful and true.

I'm not better than anyone, and I'm not trying to convince people to live by my standards of what's right. I'm trying to convince them to live by their own.

Sometimes one simply wants to disappear.

In the end, everyone loses everyone. There was no invention to get around that.

The end of suffering does not justify the suffering, what a mess I am, I thought, what a fool, how foolish and narrow, how worthless, how pinched and pathetic, how helpless.

I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness.

I wanted so much to have a life. Even just once, even for a second.

I have no need for the past, I thought, like a child. I did not consider that the past might have a need for me.

Murdering someone would surely prove that you are capable of killing, but it wouldn't be the most reasonable way to understand why you shouldn't do it.

It was getting hard to keep all the things I didn't know inside me.

If it weren't my life, I wouldn't have believed it.