when someone speaks he looks at a mouth, not eyes and their colors, which, it seems to him, will always alter depending on the light of a room, the minute of the day. Mouths reveal insecurity or smugness or any other point on the spectrum of character. For him they are the most intricate aspect of faces. He's never sure what an eye reveals. but he can read how mouths darken into callousness, suggest tenderness. One can often misjudge an eye from its reaction to a simple beam of sunlight.

A blind lover, don't know what I love till I write it out

Nowadays he doesn't think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weigh of her wrist on his heart during the night.

Politically I don't believe anymore that we can only have one voice to a story, it's like having one radio station to represent a country.

Love is so small it can tear itself through the eye of a needle

Love is the use one makes of another.

That's one of the great sadnesses of any life - knowing what you know now and then remembering what you did not know then.