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Most of us live in a fog. It's like life is a movie we arrived to 20 minutes late. You know something important seems to be going on. But we can't figure out the story. We don't know what part we're supposed to play or what the plot is.
That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.
I believe a lot of our lives are spent asleep, and what I've been trying to do is hold on to those moments when a little spark cuts through the fog and nudges you.
Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
When I was 13, I began relaxing my hair, and that meant when I turned 18 it began to crack and fall off, and when I began anchoring, I had short, stubbly pieces of hair. And trying to report in San Francisco with fog meant my hair swelled.
It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm fog.
In tragedy, it's hard to find a good resolution; it's not black and white: it's a big fog of gray.
Derive happiness in oneself from a good day's work, from illuminating the fog that surrounds us.
I love eulogies. They are the most moving kind of speech because they attempt to pluck meaning from the fog, and on short order, when the emotions are still ragged and raw and susceptible to leaps.
Most consequential choices involve shades of gray, and some fog is often useful in getting things done.
