We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.

I'm trying to die correctly, but it's very difficult, you know.

It is not peace we seek but meaning.

It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.

Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.

There is no pain compared to that of loving a woman who makes her body accessible to one and yet who is incapable of delivering her true self -- because she does not know where to find it.