Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.

Faith, the least exclusive club on Earth, has the craftiest doorman. Every time I've stepped through its wide-open doorway, I find myself stepping out on the street again.

I can't bear living in this huge beautiful world and not try to imitate it as best I can.

As long as you can Houdini your way out of the Sisyphean constraints then originality happens.

What is any ocean but a multitude of drops?

How could I know a famished heart will eat its mind? Can kill its body?

Many children are natural fantasists, I think, perhaps because their imaginations have yet to be clobbered into submission by experience.