It is an awful thing to be betrayed by your body. And it’s lonely, because you feel you can’t talk about it.

We always see our worst selves. Our most vulnerable selves. We need someone else to get close enough to tell us we’re wrong. Someone we trust.

Sorry to be so cynical, but this is New York

This is my life, I think. I am an accumulation of objects.

It's one thing to fall in love. It's another to feel someone else fall in love with you, and to feel a responsibility toward that love.

He doesn’t just look upset—he looks newly blind. There is such loss in his eyes, and it permeates every other part of his body.

I think that if you were somehow able to measure the weight of human kindness, it would have weighed more on 9/11 than it ever had. On 9/11, all the hatred and murder could not compare with the weight of love, of bravery, of caring. I have to believe that.