Don't forget the earth's about five thousand million years old, at least. Who can afford to live in the past?

I don't think there's been any writer like Samuel Beckett. He's unique. He was a most charming man and I used to send him my plays.

There are no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false.

Nothing is more sterile or lamentable than the man content to live within himself.

I mean, if a thing works, if a thing is right, respect that, acknowledge it, respect it and hold to it.

How can the unknown merit reverence? In other words how can you revere that of which you are ignorant? At the same time, it would be ridiculous to propose that what we know merits reverence. What we know merits any one of a number of things, but it stands to reason reverence isn't one of them. In other words, apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?

Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.