People come and go in life, but they never leave your dreams. Once they're in your subconscious, they are immortal.

Time, we like to say, cures all. But maybe the old saying doesn’t mean time heals. Time cures a secret in its brine, keeping it and finally, paradoxically, destroying it. Nothing is left in that salt solution but the pain or rage, the biting shame that lodged it there. Even they are diluted or denied.

The world is full of mystery but it must not be choked with secrets: we must talk to one another.

I come from people who have always been polite enough to feel that nothing has ever happened to them.

landscape, that vast still life, invites description, not narration. It is lyric. It has no story: it is the beloved, and asks only to be contemplated.

Memory is, first, a captivating mystery.

No memoirists writes for long without experiencing an unsettling disbelief about the reliability of memory, a hunch that memory is not, after all, just memory.