Suddenly you’re ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you’re alive and its spectacular.

What is unknown is the fulfillment of your own unique life, the likes of which has never existed on earth. And you are the only one who can do it. People can give you clues how to fall and when to stand, and when you are falling and when you are standing, this only you can know. And in the way of your own talents is the only way to do it.

I think of compassion as the fundamental religious experience and, unless that is there, you have nothing.

Privation and suffering alone open the mind to all that is hidden to others. (Igjugarjuk)

And then he says, "The writer must be true to truth." And that's a killer, because the only way you can describe a human being truly is by describing his imperfections. The perfect human being is uninteresting - the Buddha who leaves the world, you know. It is the imperfections of life that are lovable. And when the writer sends a dart of the true word, it hurts. But it goes with love. This is what Mann called "erotic irony," the love for that which you are killing with your cruel, analytical word.

When you are on your path, and it is truly your path, doors will open for you where there were no doors for someone else.

You've got to say yes to this miracle of life as it is, not on condition that it follow your rules.