Stuff n' Things

I knew I loved.

— David Foster Wallace, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men

More often than not, a hero’s most epic battle is the one you never see; it’s the battle that goes on within him or herself.

— Kevin Smith

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

— Pablo Neruda, Love: Ten Poems

I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you. I knew this was going to happen. So I’m not blaming you for falling in love with another woman. I’m not angry, either. I should be, but I’m not. I just feel pain. A lot of pain. I thought I could imagine how much this would hurt, but I was wrong.

— Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

If you try and lose then it isn’t your fault. But if you don’t try and we lose, then it’s all your fault.

— Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game

Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still.

— David Foster Wallace, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men

If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.

— Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore

Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously.

— Hunter S. Thompson

I just hope that one day— preferably when we’re both blind drunk— we can talk about it.

— J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

We should have, no doubt, but we didn’t.

— J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

I mean, maybe I am crazy. I mean, maybe. But if this is all there is, then I don’t want to be sane.

— Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

It’s never the changes we want that change everything.

— Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

The male frog in mating season,” said Crake, “makes as much noise as it can. The females are attracted to the male frog with the biggest, deepest voice because it suggests a more powerful frog, one with superior genes. Small male frogs—it’s been documented—discover if they position themselves in empty drainpipes, the pipe acts as a voice amplifier and the small frog appears much larger than it really is.”
“So?”
“So that’s what art is for the artist, an empty drainpipe. An amplifier. A stab at getting laid.

— Margaret Atwood, Oryx and Crake

I feel certain that somewhere very near here—the first house down the road, maybe—there’s a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody’s having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can’t be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.

— J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey