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

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

I love you so much. I love you enough that I want to stay separate from you. You're an extraordinary man, Frank Wright. I could so easily lose myself in your world and never make a world of my own. And where would that leave us? We'd both be bored stupid.

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

What did a person need to survive? Food. Water. Shelter. Warmth in cold weather. And something else... books.

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

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.