I realize now that the reality of things is not something you convey to people but something you make.

The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts.

Like a Chinese box, the world of the novel contained smaller worlds, and inside those were yet smaller worlds. Together, these worlds made up a single universe, and the universe waited there in the book to be discovered by the reader.

If you want to talk about something new, you have to make up a new kind of language.

What I want is for the two of us to meet somewhere by chance one day, like, passing on the street, or getting on the same bus.

As long as I kept my body moving I could forget about the emptiness inside.

There has to be pain. That's the rule.