I have always preferred maps to books. They don't answer you back.

Faith, the least exclusive club on Earth, has the craftiest doorman.

One fine day a predatory world shall consume itself.

Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms around the bend so rapidly that the greyhound of language is left, agog, in the starting cage.

. . .my dreams are the single unpredictable factor in my zoned days and nights. Nobody allots them, or censors them. Dreams are all I have ever truly owned.

Two people who are a little bit deluded in each other's favour. That's what love is, isn't it?

How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner.