A writer can't subtract or excise any of his/her past because doing so would erase the work produced during that time.

Strange: how when a light is extinguished, it's immediately as if it has never been. Darkness fills in again, complete.

The institution of marriage is just formalizing an emotion, an attempt to make it seem permanent. The emotion will last or it won't last; nothing can guarantee it.

I've never given up. I've always kept going. I don't feel that I could afford to give up. That would be the beginning of the end.

What does it mean to be born? After we die, will it be the same thing as it was before we were born? Or a different kind of nothingness? Because there might be knowledge then. Memory.

All that matters in life is forging deep ties of love and family and friends. Writing and reading come later.

... such speculation is like staring into the hot white sun. you know the sun is there but you can't see a thing.