There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.

Art doesn't have to do anything. It just has to be there for the fierce pleasure we take in doing it.

I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.

A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.

It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love.

Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.

There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.