Very often history is a means of denying the past.

You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so, how could we take it back without asking?

In the presence of love, hearth and quest become one.

Only a fool tries to reconstruct a bunch of grapes from a bottle of wine.

Don't you think it's strange that life, described as so rich and full, a camel-trail of adventure, should shrink to this coin-sized world? A head on one side, a story on the other. Someone you loved and what happened. That's all there is when you dig in your pockets. The most significant thing is someone else's face. What else is embossed on your hands but her?

I don't understand why people talk of art as a luxury when it's a mind-altering possibility.

We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.