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I didn't have much to say to anybody but kept to myself and my books. With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw it's fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy.
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My priority is my books, at least at this point. What I have to do is write the narrative of this time.
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You got to know your limits. Once is enough, but you got to learn. A little caution never hurt anyone. A good woodsman has only one scar on him. No more, no less.
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That's what the world is , after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.
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When I start to write, I don't have any plan at all. I just wait for the story to come.
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It seemed to me that this world has a serious shortage of both logic and kindness.
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And as the years have passed, the time has grown longer. The sad truth is that what I could recall in five seconds all too needed ten, then thirty, then a full minute - like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness.
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It's like a kid standing at the window watching the rain.
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And her sleep was too long and deep for that:so deep that she left her normal reality behind.
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No one could say how long that life would last. Whatever has form can disappear in an instant.
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If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.
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Judging the mistakes of strangers is an easy thing to do - and it feels pretty good.
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Narratives have the same power, I think. Some readers of my novels ask me, "Why do you understand me?". That's a huge pleasure of mine because it means that readers and I can make our narratives relative.
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Everyone may be ordinary, but they're not normal.
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But knowing what I don’t want to do doesn’t help me figure out what I do want to do. I could do just about anything if somebody made me. But I don’t have an image of the one thing I really want to do. That’s my problem now. I can’t find the image.
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I'm not afraid to die. What I'm afraid of is having reality get the better of me, of having reality leave me behind.
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Adults need more complex narratives. They have their own narratives. The main characters are themselves.
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That was the rule. Break one of my rules once, and I’m bound to break many more.
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Is it possible to become friends with a butterfly?
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In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life.
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Is it against the law for me to know it?
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It's all matter of attitude. You could let a lot of things bother you if you wanted to But it's pretty much the same anywhere you go, you can manage.
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The world is an inherently unfair place.
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It seems to me, though, that you always understand very well what I can't say very well. Trouble is I end up being even worse at saying things well.