Mark Z. Danielewski Quotes - Page 2

Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

Physics depends on a universe infinitely centred on an equals sign.

Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.

What miracle is this? This giant tree. It stands ten thousand feet high But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands. Its roots must hold the sky.

I must read. I must read. I must read.

Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.

It is hungry, it it immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.

Very soon he will vanish completely in the wings of his own wordless stanza. [ ] but his stanza is not completely empty [ * ]

I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of sum’thing has always been and always will be you.

Why did god create a dual universe? So he might say ‘Be not like me. I am alone.' And it might be heard.

I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.

Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.

Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.

The finest act of seeing is necessarily always the act of not seeing something else.

Anger is one way to respond to fear. I say one way because responses are categorically multiple.

No one ever really gets used to nightmares.

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.

Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.

Heart may still be the fire in hearth but I'm suddenly too cold to continue, and besides, there's no hearth here anyway and it's the end of June. Thursday. Almost noon. And all the buttons on my corduroy coat are gone. I don't know why. I'm sorry Hailey. I don't know what to do.

Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.

The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees' purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.

People frequently comment on the emptiness in one night stands, but emptiness here has always been just another word for darkness. Blind encounters writing sonnets no one can ever read. Desire and pain communicated in the vague language of sex. None of which made sense to me until much later when I realized everything I thought I'd retained of my encounters added up to so very little, hardly enduring, just shadows of love outlining nothing at all.

So often I wonder whether it is my right to capitalize, as I feel, so often, on the grief of others. But then I justify, in my own particular thoughts, by feeling that I can contribute a little to the understanding of what others are going through; then there is reason for doing it.

Write what you love. Love will hold you through the hard times and hold the world during the good times.

House of Leaves is certainly about the unsettling nature of fear - and it was my aim to address that - but its also about recovering from fear.