and what about a teakettle?

It was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, its ignorance bliss, I don't know, but its so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me?

The tragedy of love (loving), you can't love anything more than something you miss.

Finished reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close for the second time and surprisingly I finished it much faster this time but it left me feeling empty abs hollow and sad esp how Oskar mentions zipping up the sleeping bag of himself I feel like that sometimes when things/ppl hurt/disappoint me and this expression makes so much sense, in a way shutting everyone from yourself, and yourself from everyone or maybe its the minimal form of protection you are capable of? In a way Oskar is a reminder of ourselves I guess he is so vulnerable Grandma is so vulnerable man who does not speak, on the other hand is selfish, Mum is so vulnerable so many layers in this story and no true closure Oskar's dad is dead and nth can change that but that's not the depressing part. Grandma and her failed marriage depresses me so does Oskar and his quest to ultimately, nothing. Honestly if I ever had a kid, I would prolly love him/her more than anything in this world and its obvious that Grandma loves her son and her son loves Oskar and this depresses me too. The fact that Oskar carries his tambourine wherever he goes depresses me too but that's why its such a thrill to read. But I'm having second thoughts approaching Jonathan Safran Foer's other book that I have alr read last year cuz its confusing yet spectacular at the same time. Anyway this was a good book prolly one of the best I've ever read (not that I read a lot) but still.
For some reason I can't finish David Mitchell books he has a consistent theme of connection throughout all his novels though. Alright, flying off to Taiwan on Tuesday, might buy books back.

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