Women love the last blow as well as the last word, and when they fight for love they are pitiless as a wounded buffalo.
The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.
It was my view then, and still is, that you don't make war without knowing why. Knowledge of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed to me that when a nation goes to war it must have reasonable confidence in the justice and imperative of its cause. You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead.
By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly happened, and you carry it forward by inventing incidents that did not in fact occur but that nonetheless help to clarify and explain.
Fiction is the lie that helps us understand the truth.
What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.
I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
When I go to sleep, someone wakes up to get their hustle on, that's why I get my 2 hours, their 2 hours and overseas 2 hours in. I'll make sure no one can catch me.
There were thousands and thousands of forms of joy in the world, but that all were essentially one and the same, namely, the joy of being able to love.
Here we are - despite the delays, the confusion, and the shadows en route - at last, or for the moment, where we always intended to be.
I don't like to read novelizations of movies.