You cannot protect yourself from sadness..

...without protecting yourself from happiness



"Why are you leaving me? He wrote, I don't know how to live.
I do not know either, but I am trying.
I do not know how to try.
There were things that I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him.
So I buried them, and let them hurt me."



"Do you want to see me again or should I go away?"
The next morning there was a note written on the window,
"Don't go away," which meant something but it didn't mean "I want to see you again."
I gathered a handful of pebbles and tossed them at her window, nothing happened, I tossed some more, but she didn't come to the window, I wrote a note in my daybook - "Do you want to see me again?" - I ripped it out and gave it to the doorman, the next morning I went back, I didn't want to make her life any harder than it was, but I didn't want to give up either, there was a note on the window: "I don't want to want to see you again," which meant something but it didn't mean yes. I gathered pebbles from the street and threw them at her window, hoping she would hear me and know what I meant, I waited, she didn't come to the window, I wrote a note - "what should I do?" - and gave it to the doorman, he said, "I'll make sure she gets it, I couldn't say, "Thank you." The next morning I went back, there was a note on her window, the first note, "Don't go away," I gathered pebbles, I threw them, they tapped like fingers against the glass, I wrote a note, "Yes or no?" for how long could it go on? The next day I found a market on Broadway and bought an apple, if she didn't want me I would leave, I didn't know where I would go, but I would turn around and walk away, there was no note in her window, so I threw the apple, anticipating the glass that would rain down on me, I wasn't afraid of the shards, the apple went through her window and into her apartment, the doorman was standing in front of the building, he said, "You're lucky that was open, pal," but I knew I wasn't lucky, he handed me a key. I rode the elevator up, the door was open, and the smell brought back to me what for forty years I has struggled not to remember but couldn't forget. I put the key in my pocket, "Only the guest room!" she called from our bedroom, the room in which we used to sleep and dream and make love. That was how we began our second life together....



"How could you?
He wouldn't show me his eyes. I hate silence.
Say something.
He took his pen from his shirt pocket and the top napkin from the stack on the table.
He wrote, you were happy when I was away.
How could you think that?
We are lying to ourselves and to each other.
Lying about what? I don't care if we're lying.
I am a bad person.
I don't care. I don't care what you are.
I can't.
What's killing you?
He took another napkin from the stack.
He wrote, You're killing me.
And then I was silent.
He wrote, You remind me.



"I thought about waking her.
But it was unnecessary.
There would be other nights.
And how can you say I love you to someone you love?
I rolled onto my side and fell asleep next to her.
Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you.
I love you.

Jonathan Safran Foer, extremely loud and incredibly close