Jonathan Hull Quotes

No wonder such a big part of growing old is learning to lower one's expectations, only we call that maturity and wisdom so as not to sound too defeatist. When you are young you demand ecstasy; when you are old you settle for anything short of agony.

Why does the longing for love have to be so acute, like a desperate thirst? Is it because love is wanting to be saved and we can never really be saved? Maybe love is really born of our fears. Love is the heart's desire for a painkiller; a tearful plea for a great big epidural. Yes that's it: love is the only anesthesia that really works. And so people with broken hearts are really those who are just coming to, and if you've ever seen someone come out of general anesthesia, you know that it looks a lot like the beginnings of a broken heart.

I see her again: her face wet with tears, her eyes searching mine. Slowly, very slowly, I reach my hands out and trace my fingertips along her skin, first down her neck, so warm and fragile, then across her breasts and down along the curves of her hips. Then with all my strength I wrap my arms around her and pull her toward me, but she is gone.

Maybe our relationships--love--can save us, at least enough so that our lives are finally worthwhile, even with all the rotten misery and dying.

It is said that life is too short, and that's quite true, unless you are lonely. Loneliness can bring time to its knees; an absolute and utter standstill.

From my bed I can see the moon tonight, so bright and ripe and salmon pink it looks as if it might drop from the sky. I imagine pirates on deck just before sunrise with the wood groaning and the moonlight streaking across the water in a straight line from the horizon. Did Caesar see the moon exactly so as he strode down the Roman Forum on the way to some debaucherous celebration? And what about Moses and Galileo and some wretched young Londoner pulling a cart full of corpses during the plague? or an American Indian crouched by a fire in a small clearing surrounded by huge primeval trees that glow orange from the flame?

Like most bookworms I read so as not to be alone, which often annoys those who are trying to make conversation with me.

Maybe other people are like mirrors that we see ourselves in; versions of ourselves that vary dramatically depending on the particular cut of glass.

Was [her] life really better than most, or did she appreciate it more or just remember it differently? I suspect she remembers it differently, which is really the trick. If you want to age gracefully, remember selectively.

I often wondered why men will risk almost certain death in an attempt to save other men. I decided it was because men will do anything to give their lives some meaning and virtue.

What I remember most is the searing sensation of looking into her eyes for the first time,eyes that would hunt me for the rest of my life

I noticed how the band members watched her and how she made them smile and I realized that she was the kind of person who changed the feeling in a room, so that others suddenly feel that they are in the right place. Is that the secret of life, to surround yourself with people who are so full of passion, people who know sadness but not bitterness? I looked into her face, which was alive with excitement, and then into her eyes, which were full of all the things you can only say with your eyes.

But to find it and touch it and hold it! What relief, if only briefly, until love wears off or slips through our hands. Strange how love--the most fickle of emotions--creates the illusion of permanence right from the start, just as beauty, so fleeting and elusive, can seem so timeless and infinite to behold.

...the best poems were like little vessels that carry messages that can't be transported in any other way; miniature worlds like tiny paintings or Faberge eggs.

Books aren't just my defenses, the sandbags I use to fortify my position; they are also the building blocks of my soul, and I am the sum of all I read.

If love doesn't triumph, it ought to. For love is the one thing we have that feels more powerful than even death; the only respite from life's wretched absurdity. The magic of love is not that it contains all the answers, it's that it eliminates the need for so many pressing questions. For love makes us feel like gods
and that's what we're really after, isn't it?

The air was unusually warm and humid and I wondered if everyone else associated that sensation with childhood, with bare feet and wet grass and fireflies and heat lightning, and repeated entreaties to come in for dinner.

Maybe what life needs is a good soundtrack, especially during the long stretches when nothing interesting is being said. A soundtrack might dignify things a bit, ennobling us with the proper drama and tension and pathos.

Yesterday I noticed a scent of bark outside that I had not smelled in years. While the bark lingered in my nose, flushing out ancient tree houses and campfires and games of tag and capture the flag, I noticed that the birds seemed to be singing louder than usual and the leaves on the trees looked more pronounced, almost exaggerated in their lush clarity.

I think we all look for clues that we are not utterly alone ... Clues we find in literature and paintings and music and even someone's eyes; clues that demonstrate that someone else has felt the same indescribable feelings, seen the same things or passed by the spot even if it was by candlelight three hundred years ago. It means everything, like finding footprints in the sand of a deserted island.

I spent all day wandering up and down the hallways, staring at the Mona Lisa and Canova's 'Psyche and Cupid' and the 'Venus de Milo' and Caravaggio's 'The Death of the Virgin' and hundreds of other works in all shapes and sizes and colors. Just before I was about to leave, I was staring at Michelangelo's 'The Dying Slave', and I suddenly realized that every single work I had seen expressed the same thing, the same intense longing for beauty and immortality and justice and compassion. It was as though all of these artists from throughout history were there in those long hallways crying out the same anguished plea in a thousand different languages.

What is it about beauty that intimidates; causing us to kneel somewhere deep inside and pray and wonder just how close we might crawl before being banished from the sanctuary?

Our quest for heroism is awkward. Not the obvious heroism that earns medals and applause but the heroism of daily life. Go to Princeton and you're an educational hero; run a marathon and you're an athletic hero; make loads of money and you're a financial hero--the alpha hero of our culture. Each occupation and role in life has its own exacting rituals for advancement and reward, from the employee of the month parking space to stock options. The point is not the Princeton degree or the marathon medallion or the money or the parking space, it's what these things say about us, that we are special and unique; that momentarily at least, we have risen head and shoulders above the clamoring masses to be giddily succored by premonitions of divinity.

Actually, I'm glad I'm not rich. I've gotta believe that it's harder to die if you are. Not only do you lose possession of all those assets, all that cash and those stocks and bonds and cars and antiques and silver and paintings and vacation homes, but in those final days and weeks there can be no denying that a tremendous amount of your life was spent accumulating and fussing over all those assets, time that could have been spent with family and friends or fishing or traveling...

Completely alive. I thought abut what she meant by that; about all the joy and wonder and passion that had slipped from her fingers.

I was glad that it rained. Not just a drizzle but big furious drops that lashed against us and danced at our feet. Our discomfort seemed somehow appropriate, all of us standing there with tears and rain washing down our taut faces, overcome by so many names.

How about some commotion, a stir caused by the spreading news of my imminent demise? If the world would just wince momentarily at my passing. No need for flags at half-mast, but just a flinch, a brief pause before everyone returns to the busy business of life.

It was the chance--just the chance--to come fully alive; to love someone else so completely that you would never again feel alone. That was it, wasn't it? The promise of being engulfed by love and passion and intimacy; to connect in a way that gently sutured together the souls.

...and thinking how the first scent of autumn is like coming across a lost album of childhood photographs.