The woman is the home. That's where she used to be, and that's where she still is. You might ask me, What if a man tries to be part of the home -- will the woman let him? I answer yes. Because the he becomes one of the children.

He says he’s lonely, horribly lonely because of this love he feels for her. She says she’s lonely too. She doesn’t say why.

It’s not that you have to achieve anything, it’s that you have to get away from where you are.

Get rid of things or you'll spend your whole life tidying up.

It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

A book consists of two layers: on top, the readable layer ... and underneath, a layer that was inaccessible. You only sense its existence in a moment of distraction from the literal reading, the way you see childhood through a child. It would take forever to tell what you see, and it would be pointless.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.