We’ve died so many times now that we can only wonder why we still care.

People just weren't interesting. Maybe they weren't supposed to be. But animals, birds, even insects were. I couldn't understand it.

The world had somehow gone too far, and spontaneous kindness could never be so easy.

Art is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.

I pretend to understand because I don't want anybody to be hurt

For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.

It’s never quite right, all the things we are taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we die, all the lives we live.