Underneath the physical world there is a vast network of connections that we cannot see.
A river of private meaning runs under the surface of all human lives.
So much of what is important in each person’s life can never be seen, felt, known, or understood by any other person.
Between me and the person next to me on the bus, there is a distance greater than the 3,000 miles between New York City and Los Angeles.
I can know that 4,000 people were laid off when a company closes, but I can’t ever know how that job loss mixes it up with all the other realities in any of those people’s lives — and not one of them can know it for any other.
Loneliness is epidemic in this world, but no one is racing for the cure.
Compared to the pain of knowing I’m a prisoner living a life sentence inside my own skin, what does it matter that The New Yorker will never assign me an article or that I’ll never have the economic means to get a Master’s degree in history or literature?