The details of the world in which we live are always secondary to the fact that we must live in them.

I knew that at least a few of the stars I saw were probably gone already, collapsed into nothing. I felt like I was looking at a lie. But I didn't mind. The world makes liars of us all.

There's something immediate about the experience of reading a poem. It makes sense in my own mind, but I'm trying to figure out a way to articulate it... It's like looking at a painting: you're able to take in the totality of the work all at once, and so processing whatever information that painting is giving you is almost secondary to simply apprehending what's in front of you.

To understand the world, one’s place in it, is to be always at the risk of drowning.

It reminded me of talking, how what is said is never quite what was thought, and what is heard is never quite what was said. It wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but everything has a little failure in it, and we still make do somehow.

My personal opinion is that if someone writes honestly about war, it will inherently be anti-war.

The details of the world in which we live are always secondary to the fact that we must live in them.