Whether you want to call it God or the mystery of the cosmos doesn't matter to me.

What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home.

I don't know how to answer. I know what I think, but words in the head are like voices underwater. They are distorted.

As your lover describes you, so you are.

Capacity for love in its higher forms seems to be peculiarly human although even in humans it is still peculiar.

I hated historical novels with fluttering cloaks.

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.