I thought of the things that had happened to me over the years, and of how little I had made happen.

Some of the freckles I once loved are now closer to liver spots. But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person, and find them still.

Why does the writing make us chase the writer? Why can't we leave well enough alone? Why aren't the books enough?

I dreamt that I woke up. It's the oldest dream of all, and I've just had it

Mystification is simple; clarity is the hardest thing of all.

...life is a gift bestowed without anyone asking for it; that the thinking person has a philosophical duty to examine both the nature of life and the conditions it comes with; and that if this person decides to renounce the gift no one asks for, it is the moral and human duty to act on the consequences of that decision.

I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.