The mysterious does not spell itself out in capital letters, as many writers believe, but is always between, an interstice.

Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.

I'm such a jerk; it had never occurred to me that when we look at a photo from the front, the eyes reproduce exactly the position and the vision of the lens; it's these things that are taken for granted and it never occurs to anyone to think about them.

I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.

For me the thing that signals a great story is what we might call its autonomy, the fact that it detaches itself from its author like a soap bubble blown from a clay pipe.

Where are the beginnings, the endings, and most important, the middles?

As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.