People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night.

There's always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.

People say great art is immortal. I say there's something mortal in it. It carries a glimpse of death.

Pain is just another form of information.

That's why people take vacations. No to relax or find excitement or see new places. To escape the death that exists in routine things.

There were moments when she wasn't talking so much as fading into time, dropping back into some funnelled stretch of recent past.

Some people are larger than life. Hitler is larger than death.