You have to protect yourself from sadness. Sadness is very close to hate. Let me tell you this. This is the thing I learned. If you take in someone else’s poison—thinking you can cure them by sharing it—you will instead store it within you.
It had a dream’s potency and shamefulness. A dream’s uselessness, as well.
Fearlessness in those without power is maddening to those who have it.
Writers don’t write from experience, though many are resistant to admit that they don’t. I want to be clear about this. If you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.
His captor, the kidnap victim, the messenger, the angel, the girl with the gun, the girl with the name of Spider-Man’s first love, Gwen Stacy, sitting across the table from him, her hand in his.
You can’t start a life in a language you don’t understand.
It seemed a fine way to pass the time to imagine that the dirt under his fingernails was residue from saving the world.
For to be a realist (in art or in life) is to acknowledge that all things might be other than they are.
If you can still see how you could once have loved a person, you are still in love; an extinct love is always wholly incredible.