Yes, at times in front of goal a fog descends. Perhaps the speed of my feet doesn't match up with that of my mind.

I am a romantic, in a literary way, by which I mean the Romantic poets, who thought just because a sensation is fleeting doesn't mean it isn't valuable. If the only criterion of value is whether...

I think what I'm trying to do is create moments of recognition. To try to detonate some kind of feeling or understanding of lived experience.

No longer shall I paint interiors with men reading and women knitting. I will paint living people who breathe and feel and suffer and love.

A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.

I think what's important is to give space to the range of human experience.

A man's palate can in time become accustomed to anything.

It has been discovered experimentally that you can draw laughter from an audience anywhere in the world of any class or race simply by walking on a stage and uttering the words "I am a married man."

My generation must have despair. - Leonard Bernstein Ch 40/Dog Water Free, A Memoir

We're all rejected people, we know what it is to be refused, we know what it is to be oppressed, depressed, and then, accused, and I am very much cognizant of that feeling. Nothing in the world is...

This is unbearable ... God. These books she'll never read. Her Life's Library.

In the moments between bullets, those in foxholes regain their vision. They get to count the dead, feel for holes. Pain creeps through a sluice of calm.

"I believe that we don't choose our stories," she began, leaning forward. "Our stories choose us." She paused and took a sip of water. Her hand, I noticed was steady.. "And if we don't tell them, then...

Taken together the Internet reads like the grandest character-driven novel humanity has ever known. Not much plot though.

We all tell stories - to ourselves and to each other. Some of learn to tell only the most interesting bits.

Cigarette kisses the flame. But the mouth kisses the woman.

We are all in the same boat, boat of life. Does not seem to be a rudder with oarsman. Perhaps my words may find a path, path through currents and waters as we continue our journey on river of life. -...

So I found myself telling my own stories. It was strange: as I did it I realised how much we get shaped by our stories. It's like the stories of our lives make us the people we are. If someone had no...

I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone,...

They live in human memory, man. That's what keeps them alive.

In the end, people don't view their life as merely the average of all its moments - which, after all, is mostly nothing much plus some sleep. For human beings, life is meaningful because it is a...

I'm thinking about past events. I'm interested in recall, exact recall, of what was said, who said it and to whom. I want to know the truth, undistorted by time and revision and wishes and regrets.

He did not wholly understand the intricate play of ideas and the complex phrases, but as he read he sensed a strong, whole purpose behind the words and he felt that he almost understood.

I'm not mad. I already told you that. We all have mistakes in our past... and our future. It's a fact of life.

Mourning was really for the living.

Nothing much bothered you for a while and you kept walking like a silhouette through this town, saying hi's and goodbyes, acting polite at all times. But there is no fire in your heart; you are not...

We are born with the innate capacity to express empathy. Experiencing our own cuts and bruises, encountering our own difficulties and disappointments, expands our cognitive world and rouses the...

We want our wounds to speak for themselves, but usually we end up having to speak for them.

The heart's seasons seldom coincide with the calendar. Who among us has not been made desolate beyond all words upon some golden day when the little creatures of the air and meadow were life...

In effect, painting is the still memory of {the artist's} human motion, and our individual responses to it depend on who we are, on our character, which underlines the simple truth that no person...