Tara Oswald

“... His arm was so thick and strong. I was sure it would protect me for as long as I lived. And it did. Even after I lost him. The memory of his arm wraps around me as his arm used to. Each day has been chained to the previous one. But the weeks have had wings.
Why are you leaving me?
He wrote, I do not know how to live.
I do not know either, but I am trying.
I do not know how to try.
There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.
I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn't explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love. Why does anyone ever make love? ...”
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

“I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write anything but mediocre poetry.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

“We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”
― D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover

“The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know you are sad.”
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated