Best 15 quotes of Doug Dorst on MyQuotes

Believing something doesn't change who you are. Neither does rejecting something you once believd in.

I don't trust anyone who wouldn't.

Look at Andrew Roe's The Miracle Girl from one angle and you'll see an incisive and insightful critique of America at the millennium and today, investigating where we put our faith and why. The greatest of Roe's achievements in this captivating debut is a memorable feat of intense empathy. Roe inhabits characters who are desperate to believe and reveals to us their needs and wounds and hopes, and he does so with kindness, generosity, and wisdom. This is a novel about what it means to be human, to seek connection and hope and maybe even transcendence in the world around us.

Time and circumstances change us...and it is pointless to ask why.

Artistic integrity is not a guest whom one may choose not to invite to a gala. She must be the first you invite, the first you seat, the first you serve food and wine, the one who calls the orchestra's tunes, the one who is offered her choice of dance partners throughout the night.

Do you always travel with such cumbersome books?' 'I don't trust anyone who wouldn't.

- I can't make choices like that without knowing who I am. Without knowing all the implications. - You can't ever know in advance. Big decisions require faith.

If I am going out into the unknown, it might as well be the really unknown.

I know the you who’s in the margins. I know you’re thinking hard about what you want and why– more than some people ever do. I know you can take on a challenge and kick its ass. And I know you’ve tried harder to understand me than anyone has in a long time.

It was stolen. As most beautiful things eventually are.

Something about her in this moment strikes him as being familiar. The motion of her arm? The shape of her hand? The wrinkle of her upper lip? He does not know. Nor does he have any way to tell whether what he is sensing is a fragment of memory, a fragment of an idea of a memory, or something his mind, desperate for connections, has created on its own.

-That's kind of sad. -I used to think so. Now I think: you're born a certain way. Later you get to decide how much you want to fight/change that. I don't mind being alone. -You must mind. If you didn't you wouldn't be doing this with me.

They all occupied the same space but did not occupy it together. Imagine a thousand leaves of tracing paper, each with one person lightly pencilled on it, all stacked atop a scene of a frozen city block. A thousand discreet and solitary realities that appear to be occurring in the same location.

What begins at the water shall end there, and what ends there shall once more begin. Words are a gift to the dead and a warning to the living.

You might say that S. has only himself to blame, that it is entirely his choice to fight this fight, to live a life of vigilant somnolence or somnolent vigilantism, to allow himself to be satisfied with Sola in the margins of his manuscripts instead of in his arms, and you might be right. But you ought to understand, too, that there's an attrition that takes place inside, one in which options and choices and even desires are ground ever smaller until finally their existence can no longer be confirmed by observation or weight or displacement but only by faith. Until desire is a ghost.