My mother’s eyes were incomprehensible; they were dark stages where dimly seen mob scenes were staged and all one ever sensed was tumult and drama, and no matter how long one waited, the lights never went up and the scene never was explained.
Tell the truth through whichever veil comes to hand — but tell it. Resign yourself to the lifelong sadness that comes from never Âbeing satisfied.
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Zadie Smith
What a sad story, I thought for so long. Not that I now think it was happy. But I think it is true, and thus the question of whether it is sad or happy has no meaning whatever.
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Bernhard Schlink
Sometimes you weren't supposed to share pain. Sometimes it was best just to deal with it alone.
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Sarah Addison Allen
How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.
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Philip Larkin
Are you sad?" Nicola asked. Richard turned in the chair. The scissors became motionless." Yes. I am sad. <span style="margin:15px; display:block"></span>I'm sad most of the time."" Does it bother you?"" It never used to. But now it does. Very much."" It's because the world disappoints...
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Andrew Kaufman
More Quotes By Harold Brodkey
In our opposed forms of loneliness and self-recognition and recognition of the other, we touched each other often as we spoke; and on shore in explorations of the past, we strolled with our arms linked...
I figured I had kept her from being too depressed after fucking--it's hard for a girl with any force in her and any brains to accept the whole thing of fucking, of being fucked without trying to turn it on its end, so that she...
Reading is an intimate act, perhaps more intimate than any other human act. I say that because of the prolonged (or intense) exposure of one mind to another.
My mother’s eyes were incomprehensible; they were dark stages where dimly seen mob scenes were staged and all one ever sensed was tumult and drama, and no matter how long one waited, the lights never went up and the scene never was explained.
He was still immersed in the dim, wet wonder of the folded wings that might open if someone loved him; he still hoped, probably, in a butterfly's unthinking way, for spring and warmth. How the wings ache, folded so, waiting; that is, they ache until...
