It's curious the way we get nostalgic for some hoped-for thing that never happened, as if something that never happened were in the past.

Does a rose exist that I might behold it? Or do I exist that a rose might be beheld?

Life is a series of family photos in which eventually you stop showing up.

Am I keeping my promises?

You do not wake up one morning a bad person. It happens by a thousand tiny surrenders of self-respect to self-interest.

If an artist has talent, he needs no other critic.

If you keep rephrasing the question, it gradually becomes the answer.