She likes the people with the endurance to tolerate the drudge, the ones who know that pain is a requirement, not a curse.

He might have been naive, but he didn't care; he said he's rather die with his heart on his sleeve than end up another cynic.

That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.

I'm of the opinion that the real is imagined and the imagined is quite real. The real is imagined, in the sense that we shape our stories, so anything that even happens on the news gets shaped in a certain way and gets a texture, and that the imagined can be real.

Give life long enough and it will solve all your problems, including the one of being alive.

He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake.

I think a good novel can be a doorstop to despair. I also think the real bravery comes with those who prepared to go through that door and look at the world in all its grime and torment, and still find something of value, no matter how small.