When you can see the beauty of a tree, then you will know what love is.

The job of the artist is to point at things.

That day I carried the dream around like a full glass of water, moving gracefully so I would not lose any of it.

To do someone else's script? I don't think I'd have a reason.

Did you ever really love her? Not really no. But me? Yes. Even though I have no pizzazz?

It was a real whale, a photograph of a real whale. I looked into its tiny wise eye and wondered where that eye was now. Was it alive and swimming, or had it died long ago, or was it dying now, right this second? When a whale dies, it falls down through the ocean slowly, over the course of a day. All the other fish see it fall, like a giant statue, like a building, but slowly, slowly.

All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life—where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it.