Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?

The greater the scientific advance, the more primitive the fear.

Off-camera lives are unverifiable.

Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn.

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

A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it.

You have to break through the structure of your own stonework habit just to make yourself listen.