I have known uncertainty: a state unknown to the Greeks.

I saw all the mirrors on earth and none of them reflected me.

When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.

This web of time--the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore eachother through the centuries--embrace every posibility.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

You may win your heart's desire, but in the end you're cheated of it by death.