Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist, there are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges and absorbs the impact.

At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat empty.

I take almost no notes when I write. I have one notebook - this old green leather notebook that my dad gave me a decade ago.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

There was no one to call me to bed, no one to demand that the rhythms of my life operate in a duet.

An average of seventy-four species become extinct every day, which was one good reason but not the only one to hold someone's hand.

It's one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you.