There are two kinds of people in this world: people who want to be desired, and people who want to be desired so much that they pretend they don't.

I believe one has to escape oneself to discover oneself.

The eye always fills in the imperfections.

By nature, a storyteller is a plagiarist. Everything one comes across - each incident, book, novel, life episode, story, person, news clip - is a coffee bean that will be crushed, ground up, mixed with a touch of cardamom, sometimes a tiny pinch of salt, boiled thrice with sugar, and served as a piping-hot tale.

I wonder if being sane means disregarding the chaos that is life, pretending only an infinitesimal segment of it is reality.

How can I expect readers to know who I am if I do not tell them about my family, my friends, the relationships in my life? Who am I if not where I fit in the world, where I fit in the lives of the people dear to me?

...What happens is of little significance compared with the stories we tell ourselves about what happens. Events matter little, only stories of events affect us.