So much of history is mystery. We don't know what is lost forever, what will surface again. All objects exist in a moment of time. And that fragment of time is preserved or lost or found in mysterious ways. Mystery is a wonderful part of life.

I have loved works of fiction precisely for their illusions, for the author's sleight-of-hand in showing me the magic, what appeared in the right hand but not in the left.

That is the saddest part when you lose someone you love - that person keeps changing. And later you wonder, Is this the same person I lost? Maybe you lost more maybe less, then thousand different things that come from your memory or imagination - and you do not know which is which, which was true, which is false.

I am like a falling star who has finally found her place next to another in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever.

I saw what I had been fighting for: it was for me, a scared child.

We dream to give ourselves hope. To stop dreaming - well, that’s like saying you can never change your fate.

Memory feeds imagination.