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“I see Nic on the plane. I see him as he is - frail, opaque, ill - my beloved son, my beautiful boy.
"Everything," I say to him.
"Everything."
Fortunately there is a beautiful boy.
Unfortunately he has a terrible disease.
Fortunately there is love and joy.
Unfortunately there is pain and misery.
Fortunately the story is not over.”
― David Sheff, Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Addiction

“Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?”
And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs.
“You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen.
“You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way.
“You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it.
“You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again.
“You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.”
― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“It may be true that suffering builds character, but it also damages people”
― David Sheff, Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Addiction

“I go to seek a great perhaps”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, The General in His Labyrinth