We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.
—T.S. Eliot (via lazyyogi)
She was not, and never could be, frank. So he was not frank, even to himself. Saying nothing, betraying nothing, immediately they were together they began the same game. Each shuddered, each defenseless and exposed, hated the other by turns. Yet they came together again…She was intense and unnatural-and he became unnatural and intense, beside her.
—D.H. Lawrence, The Witch A La Mode
I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my despersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that the normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality…
—Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho
Here, on the farther shore of the sunset, with flushed tide at his feet, and the large star flashing with strange laughter, did he himself naked walk with lifted arms into the quiet flood of life.
—D.H. Lawrence, A Modern Lover
For some reason he couldn’t re-create his father’s voice, its cadences, the exact tenor of it. It was peculiar not to remember his father’s voice, a voice he’d heard all his life. Possibly it had not had that much effect.
—Robert Ford, The Womanizer