n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
Yes, it’s an advertisement. But just watch–it’s clever.
“A novel worth reading is an education of the heart. It enlarges your sense of human possibility, of what human nature is, of what happens in the world. It’s a creator of inwardness.”
— Susan Sontag, The Art of Fiction No. 143 (via bookshavepores) from LoftLiteraryCenter on Tumblr
“But I don’t want small talk. Text me, and without saying hello, tell me why you got so angry at your sister this morning. Tell me why you have a scar shaped like Europe on the left side of your neck. Send me paragraphs about the time you spent at your grandmother’s house that one summer. Call me when I’m half asleep and tell me why you believe in God. Tell me about the first time you saw your dad cry. Go on for hours about things that may not seem important because I promise that I’ll be hanging on to every word you say. Tell me everything. I don’t want someone who just talks about the weather.”
— endlessfreethrows on Tumblr