Any adaptation is a translation, and there is such a thing as an unreadably faithful translation; and I believe a degree of reinterpretatio n for the new language may be not only inevitable but desirable.

A half-read book is a half-finished love affair.

Humans live in a pit of cheating, exploiting, hurting, incarcerating. Every time, the species wastes some part of what it could be. This waste is poisonous.

This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

The world never stops unmaking what the world never stops making. But who says the world has to make sense?

Perpetual encagement endows any mirage of salvation with credibility.

Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.