Highlights

Do fear and love share the same root? I wondered if he was really scared of them. He knew everything there was to know about spiders, the way you take a deep interest in something because you love it so much.

"When did you start being afraid of spiders?" I asked.

"A long time ago."

"But how come I never knew?"

"You couldn't have known."

"Why not? Was it a big secret?"

"You don't love me ... That's why you didn't know."

. . .

I thought if he was that afraid, he could just avoid looking at them. Why the compulsion to hunt them down with his headlamp? What if he actually saw one? Maybe searching for them with his own eyes was his way of coping with his fear.

. . .

We are all travelers crossing from this bank to that bank, from this world to nirvana. But the waters are rough. We must rely on something in order to make it over. That something could be the art or literature that you aspire to create. You will think that the thing you choose will serve as your boat or raft to carry you to that other bank. But if you think deeply about it, you may find that it does not carry you but rather you carry it. Perhaps only the student who truly savors this paradox will make it safely across. Literature and art are not simply what will carry you; they are also what you must lay down your life for, what you must labor over and shoulder for the rest of your life."

. . .

Do not write a single sentence that abets violence.

. . .

I used to think that sharing secrets always brought people closer. So I revealed secrets I did not want known in order to feel closer to someone. Oh, the loss I felt when I found out the secrets that I had held dear, that were so difficult to say out loud, that I had kept to myself, were being spread around the next day as if they were nothing! I think that was the moment I realized that pouring your heart out to someone might not bring you closer but in fact make you poorer instead. I even thought maybe growing close to someone was better achieved by empathizing in silence.

. . .

She used to say that people had to know how to enjoy their food. She said that was how you could be sure to always get your share, no matter where you went. People who know how to enjoy food know the value of it.

. . .

1 love you as much as the joy I felt...as much as the sorrow I felt...as much as the despair I felt.

. . .

To hold someone's hand, you must first know when to let go. If you miss the chance to let go of a hand that you have carelessly grabbed, the moment will pass and turn awkward.

. . .

They said that in his later years he spent his mornings studying English literature and writing the modern fiction that be had mastered, and his afternoons composing Chinese poetry. You could say that he split his day in half in order to travel between East and West. Some say that it shows how refined he was, but I see it as a mental struggle to not be sucked under by either side.

. . .

[E]veryone has his or her own means of defining value.

. . .

I'm trying to think about what I can do. But instead all that comes to mind are the things I can't do. How do we judge truth and goodness? Where are justice and righteousness hiding? A society that is violent or corrupt prohibits mutual communication. A society that fears communication is unable to solve any problem. It looks for someone to shift the responsibility to and turns even more violent.

. . .

I guess saying goodbye makes us reach out for those we would ordinarily ignore. Maybe we care about them more, too, when it is time to part.

. . .

I can't wait for the years to pass...can't wait to be older, when I will understand, even if I can't forgive. Can't wait to become strong.

. . .

The memory has faded, but it never goes away. That's why I am not going to tell you two to get over the things you have gone through. You should think about them and then think about them some more. Think about them until you can't think anymore. Don't stop questioning the unjust and puzzling.

. . .

I can tell I am getting old whenever young people strike me as endearing. But getting old isn't a bad thing. Getting old means that the subtle envy I feel for those passing through youth, and the waves of loss that wash over me when I see the way they seem to glow, will abate and leave only the hope that they will make their way forward freely, unimpeded by anything.