Quotes from Forrest Gander

Let me tell you something about meditation. At the absolute center, is the vortex we are spun from like clay, there is a shaping hand which is neither Godlike nor peaceful as you imagine.

Love solves nothing, but your love made me appear to myself.

I have lost the consolation of faith/ though not the ambition to worship

Everyone knows how much I love you All your gestures Have become my gestures

Pero lo que significa y cómo lo significa y quién lo dice y a quién le toca morir así; me gustaría creer que hay esperanza, digamos, en el hecho de poner atención a las palabras.

Within ten minutes of meeting, we'd exchanged love letters from the corners of our eyes.

Dear spider, in this house eight legs are too many.

Oh, when you get down to the licklog, just to be a good friend. To be consequent to those around me. I guess I can't see any virtue higher than that.

And then smelling it, feeling it before the sound even reaches him, he kneels at cliff's edge and for the first time, turns his head toward the now visible falls that gush over a quarter- mile of uplifted sheet- granite across the valley and he pauses, lowering his eyes for a moment, unable to withstand the tranquility—vast, unencumbered, terrifying, and primal.

What bothers me, I told you in the first weeks after we met, is that I never know when you think I'm interesting.

Is there nightshade in my brain? That I conceive your consequence as some stage in my need?

Sure, art doesn't save anybody the way a sack of rice does. But that doesn't mean it's worthless. There're plenty of ways of living in the world and among words and some of them are a fuck of a lot more predatory than others.

At which point my grief-sounds ricocheted outside of language. Something like a drifting swarm of bees. At which point in the tetric silence that followed I was swarmed by those bees and lost consciousness. At which point there was no way out for me either.

At which point I grew old and it was like ripping open the beehive with my hands again. At which point I conceived a realm more real than life. At which point there was at least some possibility. Some possibility, in which I didn't believe, of being with her once more.

The break-hard determination to be a good person, what happened to that? How is it true I have to go now? She's lost my name, but the occasion of my presence begs more. Who is my mother now I am unspoken for?

He would punctuate the remarkable things he said with silences, his extravagant gestures with absence.

You find yourself in another world you weren't looking for where what you see is that you have always been the wolves at the door. Left ajar, gaping, your own door.

The subtlety of your visual attention. You could alert me or change the subject with a contraction of your iris.

Remember when I was lying on your lap and you cleaned my ears with a Q-tip? What a strange, complex intimacy, your at once maternal and sexual tenderness.

I have lost the consolation of faith/ though not the ambition to worship