Ada ruang kosong di sela-sela sebuah kata. Ada banyak omong kosong di sela-sela bicara--tapi perlu. Adalah percakapan dengan teman yang selalu bisa menjaga kewarasan, menyelamatkanku dari jemu sempurna. Di tengah carut-marut fungsi mekanistik otomatik hampir robotik sebuah industri yang menyelubungi diri dengan judul keramah-tamahan manusia, ada teman-teman--manusia yang hidup dan dekat.
On that piece of white paper, Sam wrote, "Write about me sometime." And I typed back to her, standing right there in her bedroom. I just typed. "I will."And I felt good that those were the first two words that I ever typed on my new old typewriter that Sam gave me. We just sat there quiet for a moment, and she smiled. And I moved to the typewriter again, and I wrote something. "I love you too.
Sometimes when I see people from high school I feel trapped in a persona I maintained then,' she says. 'Ten years have gone by, a dive changed a tremendous amount - both emotionally and in circumstance. So while my oldest relationships are incredibly dear, and it's true that they know me intimately, it can be freeing to have relationships built on exactly who you are at this moment.
There was a smile dancing on his lips, although it was a wary smile, for the world is a bigger place than a little graveyard on a hill; and there would be dangers in it and mysteries, new friends to make, old friends to rediscover, mistakes to be made and many paths to be walked before he would, finally, return to the graveyard or ride with the Lady on the broad back of her great grey stallion.
Sometimes you see someone doing something that does not fit at all with your idea of that person. You realise that, a lot of the time, you don't really know people, even one of your best friends.Instead, you get to know a little bit about that person - the little things they want to reveal, or inadvertently reveal - and then you make up a whole lot of rubbish that's your idea of the person.
But Lunch Isn't That Bad, ReallyOnce I get used tohaving to eat with two peopleinstead of one.Two people who have known each otherfor such a long timethat they practically speak in code.Two people who are always saying,"Remember the time when this happened?"and "Remember the time when that happened?"(Which, of course,I never do,because I wasn't there.)Well, okay,it is that bad.It sucks, even.
After an awkward pause, Bast extended his hand. Chronicler hesitated for a bare moment before reaching out quickly, as if he were sticking his hand into a fire. Nothing happened, both of them seemed moderately surprised."Amazing, isn't it?" Kvothe addressed them bitingly. "Five fingers and flesh with blood beneath. One could almost believe that on the other end of that hand lay a person of some sort.
On page 605, Blumenthal says that 'I made friends with Hitchens's friends the novelists Martin Amis and Salman Rushdie.' True in its way. I particularly remember the occasion when he called me up and invited me to dinner with Dick Morris, but only on condition that I brought Rushdie (who was staying in my house) along with me. No Rushdie: no invitation. So I never did get to meet Dick Morris.
When we think of friends, and call their faces out of the shadows, and their voices out of the echoes that faint along the corridors of memory, and do it without knowing why save that we love to do it, we content ourselves that that friendship is a Reality, and not a Fancy--that it is builded upon a rock, and not upon the sands that dissolve away with the ebbing tides and carry their monuments with them.
I continued to move my fingers across his skin exactly as I had before, but I needed to make a decision. I had reached for him, but I could back out of it by trailing my fingers down his arm and settling my hand in his, like I wanted us to be friends.I didn't want us to be friends.Ever so slowly, I slid my hand up his sleeve, across his shoulder, and up his neck to cradle his jaw, prickly with stubble.
He shrugged. “I have a stomach thing. Don’t get close.”“Well, now you’ve spoiled everything,” I said casually, working hard to fake it. “I was planning to seduce you in the broom closet.” I pointed. “Right there.”A joyless smile appeared on Jamie’s lips. “We are far too screwed-up for a goddamned lovetriangle.”That’s my Jamie.
I am not, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, a good-natured man; that is, many things annoy me besides what interferes with my own ease and interest. I hate a lie; a piece of injustice wounds me to the quick, though nothing but the report of it reach me. Therefore I have made many enemies and few friends; for the public know nothing of well-wishers, and keep a wary eye on those who would reform them.
It seems the older we get, the tighter our inner circle becomes. When life has you down, some of those you thought had your back run, others...sometimes strangers surprise you and fill that empty space up. Oh, but life has a great balancing act and when that axle turns and you are right side up again...you will definitely not be looking for any long, lost "friends" because your inner circle is battle-tested to win!
I had a dream about you. You were canned laughter, and I was a can of tomato paste. I was organic, but you were completely artificial. You thought people liked having you around, but I knew better. We all laughed at your fake laughter behind your back. But we were both deceived. I thought the people loved me too, and they did—at least, until the day they tried to eat me. Friends don’t eat friends, normally.
I have more online contacts than I can count. I make about one hundred connections a day. I have access to millions of people. I use to think that I had friends in these numbers. But virtual friends are like stars stretched out in the sky. They’re out there, they exist, and I can imagine what they’re like, but we’ll never meet. We all just co-exist in this vast universe with a length of space between us.
