Art is a foreign city, and we deceive ourselves when we think it familiar. We have to recognize that the language of art, all art, is not our mother tongue.

A bridge is a meeting place . . . a possibility, a metaphor.

Time is a player. Time is part of today, not simply a measure of its passing.

Although wherever you are going is always in front of you, there is no such thing as straight ahead.

Freud, one of the grand masters of narrative, knew that the past is not fixed in the way that linear time suggests. We can return. We can pick up what we dropped. We can mend what others broke. We can talk with the dead.

I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.

Books, for me, are a home. Books don’t make a home – they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and a different kind of space.