The ordinary-sized stuff which is our lives, the things people write poetry aboutโcloudsโdaffodilsโwaterfallsโwhat happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes inโthese things are full of mystery, as mysterious to us as the heavens were to the Greeks.
Tom StoppardWhen people discuss his plays, he says that he feels like he's standing at customs watching an official ransack his luggage. He cheerfully declares responsibility for a play about two people, and suddenly the officer is finding all manner of exotic contraband like the nature of God and identity, and while he can't deny that they're there, he can't for the life of him remember putting them there. In the end, a play is not the product of an idea; an idea is the product of a play.
Tom StoppardWhen you stir your rice pudding, Septimus, the spoonful of jam spreads itself round making red trails like the picture of a meteor in my astronomical atlas. But if you stir backwards, the jam will not come together again. Indeed, the pudding does not notice and continues to turn pink just as before. Do you think this is odd?
Tom Stoppard