Jonathan Safran Foer

“Man kann auch die Waldbrandgefahr mindern, indem man sämtliche Bäume fällt.”

“Wir können uns nicht mit Unwissenheit herausreden, nur mit Gleichgültigkeit.”

“Why is taste, the crudest of our senses, exempted from the ethical rules that govern our other senses? If you stop and think about it, it’s crazy. Why doesn’t a horny person have as strong a claim to raping an animal as a hungry one does to killing and eating it? It’s easy to dismiss that question but hard to respond to it. And how would you judge an artist who mutilated animals in a gallery because it was visually arresting? How riveting would the sound of a tortured animal need to be to make you want to hear it that badly? Try to imagine any end other than taste for which it would be justifiable to do what we do to farmed animals.”

“bombs poured down from the sky exploding across trachimbrod in bursts of light and heat those watching the festivities hollered ran frantically they jumped into the bubbling splashing frantically dynamic water not after the sack of gold buy to save themselves they stayed under as long as they could they surfaced to seize air and look for loved ones my safran picked up his wife and carried her like a newlywed into the water which seemed amid the falling trees and hackling crackling explosions the safest place hundreds of bodies poured into the brod that river with my name I embraced them with open arms come to me come I wanted to save them all to save everybody from everybody the bombs rained from the sky and it was not the explosions or scattering shrapnel that would be our death not the heckling cinders not the laughing debris but all of the bodies bodies flailing and grabbing hold of one another bodies looking something to hold on to my safran lost sight of his wife who was carried deeper into me by the pull of the bodies the silent shrieks were carried in bubbles to the surface where they popped PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE the kicking in zosha’s belly became more and more PLEASE PLEASE the baby refused to die like this PLEASE the bombs came down cackling smoldering and my safran was able to break free from the human mass and float downstream over the small falls to clearer waters zosha was pulled down PLEASE and the baby refusing to die like this was pulled up and out of her body turning the waters around her red she surfaced like a bubble to the light to oxygen to life to life WAWAWAWAWAWA she cried she was perfectly healthy and she would have lived except for the umbilical cord that pulled her back under toward her mother who was barely conscious but conscious of the cord and tried to break it with her hands and then bite it with her teeth but could not it would not be broken and she died with her perfectly healthy nameless baby in her arms she held it to her chest the crowd pulled itself into itself long after the bombing ceased the confused the frightened the desperate mass of babies children teenagers adults elderly all pulled at each other to survive but pulled each other into me drowning each other killing each other the bodies began to rise one at a time until I couldn’t be seen through all of the bodies blue skin open white eyes I was invisible under them I was the carcass they were the butterflies white eyes blue skin this is what we’ve done we’ve killed our own babies to save them”

“In another place, their sons were killed between the barbs of their own guard wire, killed with misfired bombs while squirming in the mire like animals, killed with friendly fire, killed sometimes without knowing that they were about to die - a bullet through the head while joking with a comrade, laughing”

“They exchanged notes, like children. My grandfather made his out of newspaper clippings and dropped them in her woven baskets, into which he knew only she would dare stick a hand. Meet me under the wooden bridge and I will show you things you have never, ever seen. The "M" was taken from the army that would take his mother’s life: GERMAN FRONT ADVANCES ON SOVIET BORDER; the "eet" from their approaching warships: NAZI FLEET DEFEATS FRENCH AT LESACS; the "me" from the peninsula they were blue-eyeing: GERMANS SURROUND CRIMEA; the "und" from too little, too late: AMERICAN WAR FUNDS REACH ENGLAND; the "er" from the dog of dogs: HITLER RENDERS NONAGGRESSION PACT INOPERATIVE…and so on, and so on, each note a collage of love that could never be, and a war that could”

“Do not have any other loves before me in your heart. Do not take my name in vain. Do not kill me. Observe me, and keep me holy.”

“SADNESSES OF THE COVENANT: Sadness of God's love; Sadness of God's back [sic]; Favourite-child sadness; Sadness of b[ein]g sad in front of one's God; Sadness of the opposite of belief [sic]; What if? Sadness; Sadness of God alone in heaven; Sadness of a God who would need people to pray to Him...”

“Herschel was a Jew.""And he was my best friend.""He was his best friend.""And I murdered him.”

“Were we praying, Forgive our oppressors for what they have done? Or, Forgive us for what has been done to us? Or, Forgive You for Your inscrutability?”

“What's it about? she asked.It's about love.She laughed. They're all about love.”

“Sofiowka was found the next morning, swinging by the neck from the wooden bridge. His severed hands were hanging from strings tied to his feet, and across his chest was written, in Brod's red lipstick, ANIMAL”

“And when the blush of a schoolgirl's cheeks was mistaken for the crimson of a holy man's fingers, it was the schoolgirl who was called hussy, tramp, slut.”

“The burning bush must not be consumed.”

“It was not the Jew, of course, who invented the love poem, but the other way around.”

“What if it was man and not God that did all of this?""I do not believe in man, either.”

“The arm was the arm, and it was the arm - not her husband, or even herself - that she thought about seven years later, on June 28, 1941, as the first German war blasts shook her wooden house to its foundations, and her eyes rolled back in her head to view, before dying, her insides.”

“Some of the names I could not reason, like the box marked DARKNESS, or the one with DEATH OF THE FIRSTBORN written in pencil on its front. I noticed that there was a box on the top of one of these skyscrapers of boxes that was marked DUST”

“She took the paper from Yankel's hand, which was damp with rain, and fear of death, and death. Scrawled in a child's writing: Everything for Brod.”

“Yankel's lipstick autobiography came flaking off his bedroom ceiling, falling gently like blood-stained snow to his bed and floor. You are Yankel. You love Brod. You are a Sloucher. You were once married, but she left you. You don't believe in an afterlife.”

“We're here, the glow of 1804 will say in one and a half centuries. We're here, and we're alive.”

“I'm not sure if you would consider this a dream or a memory, because it actually happened, but when I fall asleep I see the room in which I mourned the death of my son. For those of you who were there, you will remember how we sat without speaking, easting only as much as we had to. You will remember when a bird crashed through the window and fell to the floor. You will remember, those of you who were there, how it jerked it's wings before dying, and left a spot of blood on the floor after it was removed. But who among you was the first to notice the negative bird it left in the window? Who first saw the shadow that the bird left behind, the shadow that drew blood from any finger that dared to race it, the shadow that was better proof of the bird's existence than the bird ever was? Who was with me when I mourned the death of my son, when I excused myself to bury that bird with my own hands?”

“I don't know how late it got.I probably fell asleep, but I don't remember. I cried so much that everything blurred into everything else. At some point she was carrying me to my room. Then I was in bed. She was looking over me. I don't believe in God, but I believe that things are extremely complicated, and her looking over me was as complicated as anything ever could be. But it was also incredibly simple. In my only life, she was my mom, and I was her son.”

“I trust that you have a good purpose for your ignorance”

“but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.”

“There's nothing that could convince someone who doesn't want to be convinced. But there is an abundance of clues that would give the wanting believer something to hold on to.”

“Books are for those without real lives, he thought. And they are no real replacement.”

“She was so beautiful, like someone who you will never meet, but always dream of meeting, like someone who is too good for you.”

“Death is the only thing in life that you absolutely have to be aware of as it's happening.”

“[...] he felt that he too was only a baby, with the chance to live without shame, without the need for consolation for a life lived wrong, a chance to be again innocent, simply and impossibly happy.”

“My father's face, when he said that, dissolved into a stillness, a sad expression, sadder than human feeling.”

“I was thankful," said my father, "for the make-believe.”

“The appearance was misleading- human dreams; rubbish heaps abundant yet ephemeral sudden and splendid, only to wilt and perish”

“Are you an optimist or a pessimist?" "I can't remember. Which?" "Do you know what those words mean?" "Not really." "An optimist is positive and hopeful. A pessimist is negative and cynical." "I'm an optimist." "Well, that's good, because there’s no irrefutable evidence. There’s nothing that could convince someone who doesn’t want to be convinced. But there is an abundance of clues that would give the wanting believer something to hold on to.”

“I’ was the last word I was able to speak aloud. I wanted to pull the thread, unravel the scarf of my silence and start again from the beginning, but instead I said, ‘I.’ I know I’m not alone in this disease, you hear the old people in the street and some of them are moaning, “Ay yay yay,” but some of them are clinging to their last word, ‘I,’ they’re saying, because they’re desperate, it’s not a complaint it’s a prayer, and then I lost ‘I’ and my silence was complete.”

“Hüznü aşmanın tek yolu onu tüketmektir (...)”

“A mali mikrofoni?Kako bi bilo kad bi ih svi progutali,pa da preko malih zvučnika,koji bi se mogli nalaziti u nekom od džepova kombinezona,prenose zvuk vašeg srca?Kad biste noću na skejtbordu prolazili ulicom,mogli biste čuti kako drugima kuca srce,a oni bi mogli čuti vaše srce,nešto kao na ultrazvuku.Čudno je što se pitam bi li svima srce počelo kucati istovremeno,usklađeno,kao što sve žene koje žive zajedno imaju usklađene mjesečnice,za što znam,iako zapravo ne želim znati.To bi bilo tako neopisivo čudno,osim što bi ono mjesto u bolnici na kojem se rađaju bebe zvučalo poput kristalnog lustera na brodu,jer djeca još ne bi mogla uskladiti otkucaje.A na ciljnoj crti njujorškog maratona sve bi zvučalo kao da je izbio pravi rat.”

“The next morning I told Mom I couldn't go to school again. She asked what was wrong. I told her, “The same thing that’s always wrong.” “You’re sick?” “I'm sad.” “About Dad?” “About everything.” She sat down on the bed next to me, even though I knew she was in a hurry. “What's everything?” I started counting on my fingers: “The meat and dairy products in our refrigerator, fistfights, car accidents, Larry–” “Who's Larry?” “The homeless guy in front of the Museum of Natural History who always says ‘I promise it’s for food’ after he asks for money.” She turned around and I zipped her dress while I kept counting. “How you don’t know who Larry is, even though you probably see him all the time, how Buckminster just sleeps and eats and goes to the bathroom and has no ‘raison d’etre’, the short ugly guy with no neck who takes tickets at the IMAX theater, how the sun is going to explode one day, how every birthday I always get at least one thing I already have, poor people who get fat because they eat junk food because it’s cheaper…” That was when I ran out of fingers, but my list was just getting started, and I wanted it to be long, because I knew she wouldn't leave while I was still going. “…domesticated animals, how I have a domesticated animal, nightmares, Microsoft Windows, old people who sit around all day because no one remembers to spend time with them and they’re embarrassed to ask people to spend time with them, secrets, dial phones, how Chinese waitresses smile even when there’s nothing funny or happy, and also how Chinese people own Mexican restaurants but Mexican people never own Chinese restaurants, mirrors, tape decks, my unpopularity in school, Grandma’s coupons, storage facilities, people who don’t know what the Internet is, bad handwriting, beautiful songs, how there won’t be humans in fifty years–” “Who said there won't be humans in fifty years?” I asked her, “Are you an optimist or a pessimist?” She looked at her watch and said, “I'm optimistic.” “Then I have some bed news for you, because humans are going to destroy each other as soon as it becomes easy enough to, which will be very soon.” “Why do beautiful songs make you sad?” “Because they aren't true.” “Never?” “Nothing is beautiful and true.”

“Home is the place with the most rules.”

“Razmišljam o svemu što sam učinila.I o svemu što nisam učinila.Pogreške su za mene mrtve.Ali ne mogu povući stvari koje nikada nisam učinila.”

“Život mi je kao djevojčici bio glazba koja se neprestano pojačavala.Sve me moglo dirnuti.Pas koji prati neznanca.Od toga sam osjećala toliko mnogo.Kalendar koji prikazuje pogrešan mjesec.Zbog toga sam se mogla rasplakati.I plakala sam.Gdje završava dim iz mog dimnjaka.Kako se prevrnuta boca zaustavila na rubu stola.Cijeli život učila sam kako manje osjećati.Iz dana u dan osjećala sam sve manje.Je li to starenje?Ili nešto još gore?Čovjek se ne može zaštiti od tuge,a da se istovremeno ne zaštiti i od sreće.”

“Trebam ti toliko toga ispričati,a poteškoća se krije u tome što mi ponestaje vremena,ponestaje mi prostora,ova se knjižica sve više ispunjava,jednostavno i ne bi mogao imati dovoljno stranica,jutros sam još jednom,posljednji put,pogledom obuhvatio stan i posvuda su se vidjele samo pisane riječi ,ispunjavale su zidove i ogledala,ja sam već bio smotao i sagove da mogu pisati po podovima,pisao sam i po prozorima i po bocama vina koje smo dobili,ali ih nikada nismo pili,samo nosim kratke rukave,čak i kad je hladno,jer su mi i ruke također knjige.Ali previše je stvari koje treba izraziti.Žao mi je.”

“Trebaju nam mnogo veći džepovi,razmišljao sam ležeći u krevetu i brojeći tih sedam minuta potrebnih normalnom čovjeku da utone u san.Trebaju nam divovski džepovi,džepovi dovoljno veliki za našu obitelj i prijatelje,čak i ljude koji nam nisu na popisu,ljude koje nikada nismo upoznali,ali ih ipak želimo zaštiti.Trebaju nam džepovi za gradske općine i za cijele gradove,džep u koji bi stao čitav svemir.Ali znao sam da džepovi ne mogu biti toliko veliki.Na koncu svi ostanu bez sviju.To se ne može izbjeći nikakvim izumom,pa sam se,te noći,osjećao poput kornjače koja na leđima nosi sve ostalo što postoji u svemiru.”

“Everyone performs bad actions. I do. Father does. Even you do. A bad person is someone who does not lament his bad actions.”

“Jonathan Safran Foer’s 10 Rules for Writing:1.Tragedies make great literature; unfathomable catastrophes (the Holocaust, 9/11) are even better – try to construct your books around them for added gravitas but, since those big issues are such bummers, make sure you do it in a way that still focuses on a quirky central character that’s somewhat like Jonathan Safran Foer.2. You can also name your character Jonathan Safran Foer.3. If you’re writing a non-fiction book you should still make sure that it has a strong, deep, wise, and relatable central character – someone like Jonathan Safran Foer.4. If you reach a point in your book where you’re not sure what to do, or how to approach a certain scene, or what the hell you’re doing, just throw in a picture, or a photo, or scribbles, or blank pages, or some illegible text, or maybe even a flipbook. Don’t worry if these things don’t mean anything, that’s what postmodernism is all about. If you’re not sure what to put in, you can’t go wrong with a nice photograph of Jonathan Safran Foer.5. If you come up with a pun, metaphor, or phrase that you think is really clever and original, don’t just use it once and throw it away, sprinkle it liberally throughout the text. One particularly good phrase that comes to mind is “Jonathan Safran Foer.”6. Don’t worry if you seem to be saying the same thing over and over again, repetition makes the work stronger, repetition is good, it drives the point home. The more you repeat a phrase or an idea, the better it gets. You should not be afraid of repeating ideas or phrases. One particularly good phrase that comes to mind is “Jonathan Safran Foer.”7. Other writers are not your enemies, they are your friends, so you should feel free to borrow some of their ideas, words, techniques, and symbols, and use them completely out of context. They won’t mind, they’re your friends, just like my good friend Paul Auster, with whom I am very good friends. Just make sure you don’t steal anything from Jonathan Safran Foer, it wouldn’t be nice, he is your friend.8. Make sure you have exactly three plots in your novel, any more and it gets confusing, any less and it’s not postmodern. At least one of those plots should be in a different timeline. It often helps if you name these three plots, I often use “Jonathan,” “Safran,” and “Foer.”9. Don’t be afraid to make bold statements in you writing, there should always be a strong lesson to be learned, such as “don’t eat animals,” or “the Holocaust was bad,” or “9/11 was really really sad,” or “the world would be a better place if everyone was just a little bit more like Jonathan Safran Foer.”10. In the end, don’t worry if you’re unsuccessful as a writer, it probably wasn’t meant to be. Not all of us are chosen to become writers. Not all of us can be Jonathan Safran Foer.”

“Life overflows with imperfections, but some matter more than others”

“What is suffering? I'm not sure what it is, but I know that suffering is the name we give to the origin of all the sighs, screams, and groans — small and large, crude and multifaceted — that concern us. The word defines our gaze even more than what we are looking at.”

“We were looking for an acceptable compromise.”

“Dad used to say that sometimes you have to put your fears in order...”

“Dear Anna, we will live in a home with no walls, so that everywhere we go will be our home.”