Our sense of safety depends on predictability, so anything living outside the usual rules we suspect to be an outlaw, a ghoul.

Much of life becomes background, but it is the province of art to throw buckets of light into the shadows and make life new again.

I believe consciousness is brazenly physical, a raucous mirage the brain creates to help us survive.

Everyone admits that love is wonderful and necessary, yet no one agrees on just what it is.

Despite not knowing if what he felt from moment to moment would pass or last forever, he entered fully into his shifting states of violent rage, self-pity, longing, heartbreak, cynicism, without losing the ability to think about what was happening to him. That took courage, I thought, living with the suffering in a mindful way, as an artifact of being, neither good nor bad.

And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can't really share the enormity of our lives.

Our relationship with nature has changed radically, irreversibly, but by no means all for the bad. Our new epoch is laced with invention. Our mistakes are legion, but our talent is immeasurable.