For a long time he had been white smoke. He did not realize that until he left the hospital, because white smoke had no consciousness of itself. It faded into the white world of their bed sheets and walls; it was sucked away by the words of doctors who tried to talk to the invisible scattered smoke... They saw his outline but they did not realize it was hollow inside.

As long as the hummingbird had not abandoned the land, somewhere there were still flowers, and they could all go on.

the material world and the flesh are only temporary - there are no sins of the flesh, spirit is everything!

You don't have anything if you don't have the stories.

Being alive was all right then: he had not breathed like that for a long time.

Anybody can act violently - there is nothing to it; but not every person is able to destroy his enemy with words.

I write in order to find out what I truly know and how I really feel about certain things. Writing requires me to go much deeper into my thoughts and memories than conversation does. Writing provides the solitude necessary to reflect on being in this world.