I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.

For the film maker must come by his convention, as painters and writers and musicians have done before him.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

For she was a child, throwing bread to the ducks, between her parents who stood by the lake, holding her life in her arms which, as she neared them, grew larger and larger in her arms, until it became a whole life, a complete life, which she put down by them and said, "This is what I have made of it! This!" And what had she made of it? What, indeed?

Behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

What a comfort is friendship in this world.