Love is like trench warfare - you cannot see the enemy, but you know he is there and that it is wiser to keep your head down.

I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time - those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.

Truth disappears with the telling of it.

Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.

Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

The steward, according to custom, had stopped all the clocks. This, in the language of Narouz, said "Your stay with us is so brief, let us not be reminded of the flight of the hours."

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