The heart with letters on it shining like a light bulb through the trim hole painted in the chest, art history.

I am rather saddened at the end of a book. I think most writers find this. It's like a friend departing on a voyage.

By now you know: I come from another planet. But I will never say to you, "Take me to your leaders." Even I--unused to your ways though I am--would never make that mistake. We ourselves have such beings among us, made of cogs, pieces of paper, small disks of shiny metal, scraps of coloured cloth. I do not need to encounter more of them. Instead I will say, "Take me to your trees. Take me to your breakfasts, your sunsets, your bad dreams, your shoes, your nouns. Take me to your fingers; take me to your deaths." These are worth it. These are what I have come for.

You don't look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.

I believe in the resistance as I believe there can be no light without shadow; or rather, no shadow unless there is also light.

It made him feel invisible—not that he wanted to feel anything else.

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.