All of us are imperfect human beings living in an imperfect world.

I spent thirty-three years in another man's shadow. I went everywhere he went, I helped him with everything he did. I was in a sense a part of him. When you live like that for a long time, you gradually lose track of what it is you yourself really want out of life

Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me.

When there's nothing to do, you do nothing slowly and intently.

Maybe the star doesnt even exist any more.Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.

But I found that the longer you teach, the more you feel like a total stranger to yourself

The dead will always be dead, but we have to go on living.