People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us.

A book should serve as an axe to the ice inside us.

Because of impatience we were driven out [of Paradise]; because of impatience we cannot return.

One reads in order to ask questions

There are questions we could not get past if we were not set free from them by our very nature.

I no longer know If I wish to drown myself in love, vodka or the sea.