Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.

Publishing a book is like stuffing a note into a bottle and hurling it into the sea.

We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?

The use of "religion" as an excuse to repress the freedom of expression and to deny human rights is not confined to any country or time.

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.

Myths can't be translated as they did in their ancient soil. We can only find our own meaning in our own time.

Time folds you in its arms and gives you one last kiss, and then it flattens you out and folds you up and tucks you away until it's time for you to become someone else's past time, and then time folds again.