Children are the closest we have to wisdom and they become adults the moment that final drop of everything mysterious is strained from them.

When somebody leaves this plane—or, if you like, goes into another room—those left behind sometimes try and stop loving—but this is a mistake, because even if you have loved only once in your life, you’re ruined.

I wonder if things can happen too early or too late or if everything happens at exactly the right time. If so, how sad and beautiful.

When Bach died some of his children sold his scores to the butcher they had decided the paper was more useful for wrapping meat. In a small village in Germany a father brought home a limp goose wrapped in paper that was covered with strange and beautiful symbols.

Dreamers conquered the world long ago.

Language is like drinking from one's own reflection in still water. We only take from it what we are at the time.

I think people would be happier if they admitted things more often. In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment - we are all defined by something we can’t change.