If we make anything that lasts, it outlives us.

I like to look at how people work together when they are put into stressful situations, when life stops being cozy.

Don’t you, when strangers and friends come to call, straighten the cushions, kick the books under the bed and put away the letter you were writing? How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are? Isn’t the mirror hostile enough?

We have a generation of kids who may never see a bookshelf or never see books in houses. What are they going to think about books? How will books become meaningful in their lives except as yet another form of digitalized content? A book is not just digitalized content.

The journey is not linear, it is always back and forth, denying the calendar, the wrinkles and lines of the body.

What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?

I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.