Memoirs of a Geisha

by Arthur Golden

the more he began to seem like just a curious collection of shapes and textures.

This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes consume us completely.

Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

Sometimes we get through adversity only by imagining what the world might be like if our dreams should ever come true.”

I don’t think any of us can speak frankly about pain until we are no longer enduring it.

But now I know that our world is no more permanent than a wave rising on the ocean. Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper.