The music provokes a sharp longing the music soothes.

Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an' tho' a cloud's shape nor hue nor size don't stay the same, it's still a cloud an' so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud's blowed from or who the soul'll be 'morrow? Only Sonmi the east an' the west an' the compass an' the atlas, yay, only the atlas o' clouds.

I'm not from a milieu where high-register language or philosophical ideas were welcome.

I can write pretty much anywhere.

A life can get knocked into a new orbit by a car crash, a lottery win or just a bleary-eyed consultant giving bad news in a calm voice.

Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of recent footprints.

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