Each spine was an encapsulated memory, each book represented hours, days of pleasure, of immersion into words.

The compelling thing about making art - or making anything, I suppose - is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances.

When it's over you look up: the world looks the same but you are somehow different and that feeling lingers for days.

When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?

It’s dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.

...she could express her soul with that voice, whenver I listened to her I felt my life meant more than mere biology...she could really hear, she understood structure and she could analyze exactly what it was about a piece of music that had to be rendered just so...she was a very emotional person, Annette. She brought that out in other people. After she died I don't think I ever really felt anything again.

I feel that I an everything to her.