There's a big anti-intellectual strain in the American south, and there always has been. We're not big on thought.

Who was it said that coincidence was just God’s way of remaining anonymous?

Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw," that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature?

Always remember, the person we’re really working for is the person who’s restoring the piece a hundred years from now. He’s the one we want to impress.

When you feel homesick,’ he said, ‘just look up. Because the moon is the same wherever you go.

And the flavor of Pippa's kiss--bittersweet and strange--stayed with me all the way back uptown, swaying and sleepy as I sailed home on the bus, melting with sorrow and loveliness, a starry ache that lifted me up above the windswept city like a kite: my head in the rainclouds, my heart in the sky.

And as much as I’d like to believe there’s a truth beyond illusion, I’ve come to believe that there’s no truth beyond illusion. Because, between ‘reality’ on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, there’s a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic.