When you try to unravel something you've written, you belittle it in a way. It was created as a mystery.

I understand there are some men who are only half here. Let's not say men. Let's say people. People who are more or less obscure at times.

Your brain has a trillion neurons and every neuron has ten thousand little dendrites. The system of inter-communication is awe-inspiring.

Stories are consoling, fiction is one of the consolation prizes for having lived in the world.

I've come to think of Europe as a hardcover book, America as the paperback version.

I marched and I protested against the war in Vietnam, along with many, many thousands of others. But I never quite understood the bombs that were placed in science labs or office buildings.

What did it mean, the first time, a thinking creature looked deeply into another's eyes? Did it take a hundred thousand years before this happened or it was the first thing they did, transcendingly, the thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls?