Life is not what we live; it is what we imagine we are living.

Then there was a silence he had never before experienced: in it, you could hear the years.

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

That words could cause something in the world, make someone move or stop, laugh or cry: even as a child he had found it extraordinary and it never stopped impressing him. How did words do that? Wasn't it like magic?

So, the fear of death might be described as the fear of not being able to become whom one had planned to be.

We are all patchwork, and so shapeless and diverse in composition that each bit, each moment, plays its own game. And there is as much difference between us and ourselves as between us and others

I love tunnels. They 're the symbol of hope: sometime it will be bright again. If by chance it is not night.