Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?
Though you think the world is at your feet, it can rise up and tread on you.
Oftentimes what blinds us from the truth are not the lies, but our own ego.
Time does not heal all wounds; it just numbs the pain.
At the back of my mind I had a sense of us sitting about waiting for some terrible event, and then I would remember that it had already happened.
We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.
This is how the entire course of a life can be changed: by doing nothing.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
写作不正是一种翱翔，一种可以做到的飞翔的、梦幻的、想象的形式吗？
尽管你认为世界在你脚下，但它也可能会颠覆你，践踏你。
很多时候蒙蔽我们双眼的不是假象，而是自己的执念。
时间并不治愈一切伤口，它只是让痛楚变得麻木。
我意识中隐隐地感觉，我们都坐在原地等着某个可怕的事件发生，然后我才记起它已经发生过了。
我们相互之间的了解竟然如此之少。我们的大部分就像是冰川一样淹没无痕，凸现出来的只是那冰冷而又苍白的社会意义上的自我。
在远方河畔旷野，我与吾爱并肩伫立，在我微倾的肩膀，她搭上纯白的手臂。她嘱我淡然生活，像青草滋长于岸堤。但当时年少无知，如今早已泪眼凄凄。