The things that matter don't necessarily make sense.

Language is an archaeological vehicle... the language we speak is a whole palimpsest of human effort and history.

A map is the dead body of where you've been. A map is the unborn baby of where you're going. There are no maps. Maps are pictures of what isn't.

Who is Alice?" asked mother. "Alice is somebody that nobody can see," said Frances. "And that is why she does not have a birthday. So I am singing Happy Thursday to her." - Frances the badger

Time's arrow, we are told, is a one-way thing. . . Memory's arrow, like the needle of a compass too close to a lodestone, spins in all directions.

I believe that most of us would like to be thought well of by horses.

Life is a process of one goneness after another.