the history of love

• humour was the wit in it folks. ve zamanında okunup altı çizilmişler:
  
  *all ı want is not to die on a day when ı went unseen.
  
  *the words of our childhoodbecame strangers to us- we couldn’t use them in the same way and we choose not to use them at all. life demanded a new language.
  
  *ı tried to write about real things. ı wanted to describe the world, because to live in an undescribed world was too lonely.
  
  *…so ı made up a second book, and ı made up everything. ı filled it with men who grew wings, and trees with their roots growing into sky, people who forgot their own names and people who couldn’t forget anything… ı shouldn’t make up everything, because that made it hard to believe anything.
  
  *yesterday ı saw a man kicking a dog and ı felt it behind my eyes. ı don’t know what to call this, a place before tears. the pain of forgetting: spine. the pain of remembering: spine.
  
  *to every season, to every time ı’ve woken to make the mistakes of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorroid. loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.
  
  every morning a little more.
  
  *…when will you leanr that there isn’t a word for evrything.
  
  *grammer of my life: as a rule of thumb, wherever there appears a plural, correct for singular
  
  *…ıt was ı who had taken the picture, and it was the proof of his existance, it was also proof of my own. he let me keep it. whenever ı took it out of my wallet and looked at him, ı knew ı was really looking at me.
  
  *…he slid a piece of paper under the door. ıt said: lıfe ıs butıful. ı pushed it back out. he pushed it back in. ı pushed it out. he pushed it in. out, in, out, in. ı stared at it. lıfe ıs butıful. ı thought perhaps it is. perhaps that is the word for life.. ı found a pencil. ı scrawled: and a joke forever.
  
  *ı was a small part of something larger than myself. yes, human life.
  
  *ı may be a fool but ı am not desperate. there is only so far ı am willing to go,so ı thanked her very much fo the offer but said ı was going to have to turn it down since ı was already scheduled to sit on my thumb and rotate in accordance with the movements of the earth around the sun.
  
  *her kiss was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
  
  *having begun to feel, people’s desire to feel grew. they wanted to feel more, feel deeper, despite how much it sometimes hurt. people became addicted to feeling. they struggled to uncover new emotions. ıt’s possible that this is how art was born. new kinds of joy were forged, along with new kinds of sadness: the eternal disappointment of life as it is; the relief of unexpected reprieve, the fear of dying.
  
  *franz kafka is dead: he died in a tree from which he wouldn’t come down. “come down!” they cried to him. “come down! come down!” silence filled the night, and the night filled the silence, while they waited for kafka to speak. “ı can’t.” he finally said, with a note of wistfulness. “why?” they cried. stars spilled across the black sky. “because then you will stop asking for me.” …
  
  *he learned to live with the truth. not to accept it but to live with it. ıt was like living with an elephant.
  
  *ı like to imagine my feet taking root in the ground and a moss growing over my hands.maybe ı will take the shoes off to speed the process. wet earth between the toes like a boy again. leaves will grow from my fingers. maybe a child will climb me. the little boy ı watched throwing pebbles into the empty fountain, he wasn’t too old to climb the tree. you could tell he had too much wisdom for his age. probably he believed that he wasn’t made for this world. ı wanted to say him: if not you, who?
  
  *p.230
  
  *p.236 (ı’ll write and edit asap. promise.)