As always, I am saved by the inability of living creatures to believe anything that might cause the walls of their little mental assumptions to crumble.

What does art do for us? It gives shape to our emotions.

When tea becomes ritual, it takes place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things.

Yes, our eyes may perceive, yet they do not observe; they may believe, yet they do not question; they may receive yet they do not search: they are emptied of desire, with neither hunger nor passion.

How to measure a life's worth? The important thing, said Paloma one day, is not the fact of dying, it is what you are doing in the moment of your death.

A man who farts in bed . . . is a man who loves life.

This morning I understand what it means to die: when we disappear, it is the others who die for us, for here I am, lying on a cold pavement and it is not the dying I care about; it has no more meaning this morning that it did yesterday. But never again will I see those I love, and if that is what dying is about then it really is the tragedy they say it is.