The world inside myself is vaster and richer than this paltry plane, peopled with mere galaxies and gods.

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

The world is seldom so simple that it hinges on us alone.

For future reference: do not underestimate the seductive power of math.

However strenuously the world pulls us apart, however long the absence, we are not changed for being dashed upon the rocks. I knew you then, I know you now, I shall know you again when you come home.

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

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.