I was drawn to his aloofness, the way cats gravitate toward people who’d rather avoid them.

If I could keep a single moment for all time, that would be the one. I became the very air; I was full of stars.

Haven't you always been more than yourself? Haven't we all? We are none of us just one thing.

That’s the secret to performance: conviction. The right note played tentatively still misses its mark, but play boldly and no one will question you. If one believes there is truth in art – and I do – then it’s troubling how similar the skill of performing is to lying. Maybe lying is itself a kind of art. I think about that more than I should.

The truth may not be told. Here is an acceptable lie.

I had felt the shot coming; I hadn't realized the bow was loaded with this very quarrel, perfectly calibrated to hit him hardest. What part of me had been studying him, stockpiling knowledge as ammunition?

Was it probably true that reasoning beings were equal? It seemed more like a belief than a fact, even if I agreed with it. If you followed logic all the way back to its origin, did you inevitably end up at point of illogic, an article of faith?