She was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.

I'm of the opinion that the real is imagined and the imagined is quite real. The real is imagined, in the sense that we shape our stories, so anything that even happens on the news gets shaped in a certain way and gets a texture, and that the imagined can be real.

The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.

Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.

He realized that he had thought only about the first step, never imagined the last.

The stars looked like nail heads in the sky--pull a few of them out and the darkness would fall.

Sometimes thinking back on things is a mistake arising out of pride, but I guess you live inside a moment for years, move with it and feel it grow, and it sends out roots until it touches everything in sight.