We burned with love for ourselves, all of us, starters of the fire we suffered- our love was the affliction for which only our love was the cure.
Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled. Each second was two hundred yards, to be walked, crawled. You couldn't see the next hour, it was so far in the distance. Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote reflects on how memory distorts our perception of time, making it feel elongated and burdensome.
In this quote, Jonathan Safran Foer delves into the experience of memory and time, suggesting that rather than merely filling time with recollections, memories can transform our experience into a daunting journey. Each moment feels vast and heavy, isolating us from the present as we struggle to reach what lies ahead, creating a profound sense of distance from the future and an overwhelming heaviness in the present.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
In a speech about the importance of living in the moment, one might say, 'As Jonathan Safran Foer eloquently puts it, memory can make time feel like an insurmountable journey.'
More from Jonathan Safran Foer
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A few weeks after the worst day, I started writing lots of letters. I don't know why, but it was one of the only things that made my boots lighter.
What is being awake if not interpreting our dreams, or dreaming if not interpreting our wake?
Just how destructive does a culinary preference have to be before we decide to eat something else? If contributing to the suffering of billions of animals that live miserable lives and (quite often) die in horrific ways isn't motivating, what would be? If being the number one contributor to the most serious threat facing the planet (global warming) isn't enough, what is? And if you are tempted to put off these questions of conscience, to say not now, then when?
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She lost much of her appetite. At night, an invisible hand kept shaking her awake every few hours. Grief was physiological, a disturbance of the blood. Sometimes a whole minute would pass in nameless dread - the bedside clock ticking, the blue moonlight coating the window like glue - before she`d remember the brutal fact that had caused it.
I’ve had enough, this is my prayer, that I’ll die living just as free as my hair.
If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting--both for us and for her.