The pictures do not lie, but neither do they tell the whole story. They are merely a record of time passing, the outward evidence.

I never would have thought of that word, "hospitality." I settle into the rhythm of my steps.

Life is deeply tragic and also very comic at the same time. It's everything at once.

Guilt kept me going. It was impossible not to blame myself for what had happened, but even guilt was a comfort. It was a human feeling, a sign that I was still attached to the same world that other men lived in.

Bodies count, of course - they count more than we're willing to admit - but we don't fall in love with bodies, we fall in love with each other. We all know that, but the moment we go beyond a catalogue of surface qualities and appearances, words begin to fail us, to crumble apart in mystical confusions and cloudy, unsubstantial metaphors.

As long as there's one person to believe it, there's no story that can't be true.

Our lives carry us along in ways we cannot control, and almost nothing stays with us. It dies when we do, and death is something that happens to us every day.