[Emily] Dickinson, our supreme poet of inwardness.

See, people come into your life for a reason. They might not know it themselves, why. You might not know it. But there's a reason. There has to be

Near the point of impact, time acelerates to the speed of light.

To claim - to claim repeatedly - that you are innocent of what it is claimed by others that you have done, or might have done, or are in some quarters strongly suspected of having done, is never enough unless others, numerous others, will say it for you.

All actors are whores. They want only one thing: to seduce you.

And what is 'art'? - a firestorm rushing through Time, arising from no visible source and conforming to no principles of logic or causality.

It's impossible to read a distinctive stylist like Faulkner, Joyce, Kafka, Mann, Woolf, James - and many more - without wanting to write, however entirely different one's writing will be.