Now they’re twenty-four and their real lives lie before them. Jobs of their own, a house of their own, children of their own. There are the two of th… - Karl Ove Knausgård

I had gained an insight. At great expense, but it was real and important: I was not a writer. What writers had, I did not have. I fought against this insight, I told myself I might be able to have what writers had, it might be attainable provided I persisted for long enough, while knowing in fact this was only a consolation. - Karl Ove Knausgaard, after his year at the Bergen Writing Academy

But Dad was no longer breathing. That was what had happened to him, the connection with the air had been broken, now it pushed against him like any other object, a log, a gasoline can, a sofa. He no longer poached air, because that is what you do when you breathe, you trespass, again and again you trespass on the world. He was lying somewhere in town now.

The problem is not so much that the world limits your imagination as your imagination limits the world.