There are no days more full than those we go back to.

Increasingly I think of myself as some strange and solitary conductor, introduced to a group of very dynamic musicians who happen to be my characters, and I have no idea how they are going to play together, and I have certainly no idea how I am going to put manners on them.

People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self.

Ultimately, you can only ever write what you know. It's logically and philosophically impossible to write what you don't know.

We seldom know what we're hearing when we hear something for the first time, but one thing is certain: we hear it as we will never hear it again. We return to the moment to experience it, I suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what really was, what it meant.

The point of flight. To get rid of oneself. That was reason enough to fly.

Sometimes, in life, nothing happens. But, sometimes, nothing happens beautifully.