Time weighs down on you like an old ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there—to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.
Fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step.
The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.
Better to be a first-class matchbox than a second-class match.
Wondering Whom to Read Next?
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- Toni Morrison American Novelist
- Angela Carter English Novelist, Short Story Writer
- Yasunari Kawabata Japanese Novelist, Short Story Writer
- Samuel Beckett Irish Novelist, Playwright
- Gabriel Garcia Marquez Colombian Novelist, Short-Story Writer
- Milan Kundera Czech Novelist
- John Irving American Novelist
- Amy Tan Chinese-American Novelist
- Philip Roth American Novelist, Short-story Writer