How small we humans are. All our scrambling around, trying to buttress ourselves against death. All our efforts to insulate ourselves against uncertainty with codes of behavior and meaningless busyness.

It has always been on the written page that the world has come into focus for me.

I'm like the trunk of a cactus... I take in a dose of culture and time with friends, then I retreat and go live on it for awhile until I get thirsty again.

Don't you see what's happened? You wanted to be in love again. To feel that feeling where a man you hardly know gazes into your eyes and seems to be the only human being who ever understood the real you.

In the end, what really matters? Only kindness. Only making somebody a little happier for your presence.

It's not good to live so much inside oneself. It's a self-imposed exile, really. It makes you different.

It's wonderful to feel desired. There's a sense of power in it, really.