I am a woman on her way to eat cake.

The cynic sees only cynicism, the depressive can taint creation with one glance

I like trains. I like their rhythm, and I like the freedom of being suspended between two places, all anxieties of purpose taken care of: for this moment I know where I am going.

Can you rework your past, the grit that rubs in you, until it is shiny and smooth as a pearl?

Most people have no imagination. If they could imagine the sufferings of others, they would not make them suffer so.

Memory, like so much else, is unreliable. Not only for what it hides and what it alters, but also for what it reveals.

This vast life - the real, interior one in which we remain linked to the dead (because the dream inside us ignores trivialities like breath, or absence) - this vast life is not under our control. Everything we have seen and everyone we have known goes into us and constitutes us, whether we like it or not. We are linked together in a pattern we cannot see and whose effects we cannot know.