There is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.

What gave money its true meaning was its dark-night namelessness, its breathtaking interchangeability.

When I am writing, I do not distinguish between the natural and supernatural. Everything seems real. That is my world, you could say.

You throw a stone into a deep pond. Splash. The sound is big, and it reverberates throughout the surrounding area. What comes out of the pond after that? All we can do is stare at the pond, holding our breath.

Of course it hurt that we could never love each other in a physical way. We would have been far more happy if we had. But that was like the tides, the change of seasons--something immutable, an immovable destiny we could never alter. No matter how cleverly we might shelter it, our delicate friendship wasn't going to last forever. We were bound to reach a dead end. That was painfully clear.

All imperfections are forced upon the imperfect, so the 'perfect' can live content and oblivious.

If I used being busy as an excuse not to run, I'd never run again. I have only a few reasons to keep on running, and a truckload of them to quit.