Our broken society is not born out of the triumph of the individual, but out of his effacement. He vanishes, she vanishes, ask them who they are and they will offer you a wallet or a child.

Confidence and superiority: It's the usual fundamentalist stuff: I've got the truth, and you haven't.

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?

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

I dreamed I was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.

I think we are worlds compressed into human form.

To create a past that seemed authentic but would be a fiction, you need an invented language.