But it was not the room’s disorder which was frightening; it was the fact that when one began searching for the key to this disorder, one realized that it was not to be found in any of the usual places. For this was not a matter of habit or circumstance or temperament; it was a matter of punishment and grief.

You don’t have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.

My friend was about to introduce me when she looked at me and smiled and said, "Whose little boy are you?"

This world is white no longer, and it will never be white again.

The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions that have been hidden by the answers.

A man's balance depends on the weight he carries between his legs.

To accept one’s past – one’s history – is not the same thing as drowning in it; it is learning how to use it. An invented past can never be used; it cracks and crumbles under the pressures of life like clay in a season of drought.