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.

As far as ideas about book design: I have plenty. But I also try and let people do their jobs.

I'm confused, and brilliant books help me to be less so.

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.

Sunday was always the best of days for being the self you had intended to be, but were not, for one reason or another.

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

I'm clearer now in what I want to say, and I know better how to say just that.