He came to this country like a torch on fire and he swallowed air as he walked forward and he gave out light

Over the years, confusing fragments, lost corners of stories, have a clearer meaning when seen in a new light, a different place.

There was a time when mapmakers named the places they travelled through with the names of lovers rather than their own.

...the heart is an organ of fire.

I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.

He was a man who wrote, who interpreted the world. Wisdom grew out of being handed just the smallest sliver of emotion. A glance could lead to paragraphs of theory.

A love story is not about those who lost their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past.