The old man began to sing. His voice was very lovely and obviously a part of something that the world had disposed of in its haste, evidence of a grander, kinder past.

I don't read books for pleasure, but in desperation.

I believe in discovering the love that exists and then trying to understand it. Not to invent a love and try to make it exist, but to find what does exist, and then to see what it is.

The old man began to sing. His voice was very lovely and obviously a part of something that the world had disposed of in its haste, evidence of a grander, kinder past.

I am clearer in my mind and a bit less confused than I used to be.

If he acts, if he doesn't, it's meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.

I begin with an image of some sort, just as if you saw something out of a window, and then went to the window to see what it was.