Someone once said that the joy is not in writing but in having written. I can't say I find that to be true, though I understand the sentiment.

We breathe in our first language, and swim in our second.

Love, like light, is a thing that is enacted better than defined: we know it afterward by the traces it leaves on paper.

Wit and puns aren't just décor in the mind; they're essential signs that the mind knows it's on, recognizes its own software, can spot the bugs in its own program.

I don't miss the obligation to be opinionated, but I do regret the chance to share a joy.

For me, the beauty of the blank page, or empty screen,staring up at nine thirty after two cups of coffee and a deep breath remains unique. The blankness invites scribbling on, mental drawing , and the best feeling I know - apart from the more obvious sensual ones - is the feeling of putting down the first thought and seeing it turn into symbols. Making an idea into an emotion.

I think that we're always drawn - particularly sophisticated people - are always drawn to the idea of simplicity.