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.

Stories are the only enchantment possible, for when we begin to see our suffering as a story, we are saved.

What is love but acceptance of the other, whatever he is.

You are the poet, you walk inside my dreams.

There is an ugliness in being paid for work one does not like.

In chaos, there is fertility.

His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.