June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone.

The brain may take advice, but not the heart.

The only obligation any artist can have is to himself. His work means nothing, otherwise. It has no meaning.

My father was quite an attractive guy. He was very intelligent and very amusing. I didn't like him. He was always very nice to me but I just didn't like him.

Reading dreams. That's what started her walking down the road. Every day she'd walk a little further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on.

So the days, the last days, blow about in a memory, hazy autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I've lived

I'm not a philosopher.