I didn't become a writer to write about me.

You never know the answers to the questions of life until you are asked.

The world is about the way in which our dreams intersect with our real life. Endlessly, the world of the imagination changes the world.

Who what am I? My answer: I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I’ve gone which would not have happened if I had not come. Nor am I particularly exceptional in this matter; each "I", every one of the now-six-hundred-million-plus of us, contains a similar multitude. I repeat for the last time: to understand me, you’ll have to swallow the world.

A man is sane only to the extent that he subscribes to a previously-agreed construction of reality.

It may be argued that the past is a country from which we have all emigrated, that its loss is part of our common humanity.

A sigh isn't just a sigh. We inhale the world and breathe out meaning. While we can. While we can.