History is an agreed-upon fiction.

Violets smell like burnt sugar cubes that have been dipped in lemon and velvet.

One of the keystones of romantic love - and also of the ecstatic religion practiced by mystics - is the powerful desire to become one with the beloved.

The visual image is a kind of tripwire for the emotions.

The knowing, I told myself, is only a vapor of the mind, and yet it can wreck havok with one's sanity.

What a lonely species we are, searching for signals of life from other galaxies, adopting companion animals, visiting parks and zoos to commune with other beasts. In the process, we discover our shared identity.

I don't want to be a passenger in my own life.