Siri Hustvedt, The Sorrows Of An American Quotes

That is the strangeness of language: it crosses the boundaries of the body, is at once inside and outside, and it sometimes happens that we don't notice the threshold has been crossed.

Our memory fragments don't have any coherence until they're imagined in words. Time is a property of language, of syntax, and tense.

We read each other through our eyes, and anatomically they are an extension of our brains. When we catch someone's eye, we look into a mind.

Crippled and crazy, we hobble toward the finish line, pen in hand.

Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to the spots where they happened.