There is a particular hapiness in giving a man whom you like very much, good food that you have cooked yourself.

Your own self, your personality and existence are reflected within the mind of each of the people whom you meet, ... into a likeness, a caricature of yourself, which still lives on and appears to be, in some way, the truth about you. Even a flattering picture is... a lie.

Within our whole universe the story only has the authority to answer that cry of heart of its characters, that one cry of heart of each of them: "Who am I?"

Who tells a finer tale than any of us. Silence does.

There are many ways to the recognition of truth, and Burgundy is one of them.

I think all sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.

No domestic animal can be as still as a wild animal. The civilized people have lost the aptitude of stillness, and must take lessons in silence from the wild before they are accepted by it.