Everything you know
—-I must have loved her, I thought, she must have loved me. You think you know who you were all your life, but you don’t. You can’t hold Paradise Lost in your head, so why should you be able to retain your entire existence to date? You forget things. You forget things. You have to. You make do with cribs. People ask you about other times in your life and you give them vague topic headings: ‘Oh, I was unhappy as a child … My twenties were very wild … We had a bad marriage.’ You have to use those précis, otherwise you would spend your life being a bore, like those people who think ‘How are you?’ is a real question and insist on giving detailed answers. The terrible thing, though, is that in the end you believe the cribs yourself. The past, in all its epic detail, gets lost. Years pass and pass until you simply don’t know any more that you were once a boy who liked his mother enough to draw her a purple picture.—-
I adore this book purely because it touches on subjects you so often desire to express yet you lack the exact wording for it, yet it doesn’t cliché the ideas in a girly, obvious way. The matters covered are from the perspective of Wilhelm Muller and his cold, distanced outlook allows for mature, unsentimental writing which could so easily be ruined by the generic, soppy style of many modern writers.