Our memory fragments don't have any coherence until they're imagined in words. Time is a property of language, of syntax, and tense.

That is the strangeness of language: it crosses the boundaries of the body, is at once inside and outside, and it sometimes happens that we don't notice the threshold has been crossed.

Correlation is not cause, it is just a 'music of chance'.

Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer, and each dreamer has his own folds to open and knots to untie.

Every painting is always two paintings: The one you see, and the one you remember.

Like countless first-year medical students, immersed in the symptoms of one disease after another, I am alert to the tingles and pangs, the throbs and quivers of my mortal body, each one of which is potentially a sign of the end.

We read each other through our eyes, and anatomically they are an extension of our brains. When we catch someone's eye, we look into a mind.