Mourning has its place but also its limits.

Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.

I use an IBM Thinkpad. I just use it like a typewriter, but when I started using it in 1987, I thought I won't be able to write anymore, so I thought I'd go back to the typewriter. But you couldn't go back to the typewriter after using the computer.

When the ground starts moving, all bets are off.

I was no longer, if I had ever been, afraid to die: I was now afraid not to die.

I closed the box and put it in a closet. There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.

We were that generation called silent, but we were silent neither, as some thought, because we shared the period's official optimism nor, as others thought, because we feared its official repression. We were silent because the exhilaration of social action seemed to many of us just one more way of escaping the personal, of masking for a while that dread of the meaningless which was man's fate.