Jazz is the music of the body. The breath comes through brass. It is the body's breath, and the strings' wails and moans are echoes of the body's music. It is the body's vibrations which ripple from the fingers. And the mystery of the withheld theme, known to jazz musicians alone, is like the mystery of our secret life. We give to others only peripheral improvisations.

One always, sooner or later, comes upon a city which is an image of one's inner cities. Fez is an image of my inner self. ... The layers of the city of Fez are like the layers and secrecies of the inner life. One needs a guide. ... There were in Fez, as in my life, streets which led nowhere, impasses which remained a mystery.

Each contact with a human being is so rare, so precious, one should preserve it.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we ... believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.

The one who travels like a lover searching for a new passion is suddenly blessed with new eyes, new ears, new senses.

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.

He was jealous of her future, and she of his past.