But we were interested in how our lives could mean something to the past. We sailed into the past.

Meanwhile with the help of an anecdote I fell in love. Words caravaggio. They have a power.

Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.

In the desert you celebrate nothing but water.

She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.

The last three books are much more a case of a moment of history, what happened almost by accident or coincidence, like being in the same elevator or lifeboat.

Her life with others no longer interests him. He wants only her stalking beauty, her theatre of expressions. He wants the minute secret reflection between them, the depth of field minimal, their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed book.