There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.

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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.

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For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.

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I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.

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Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you

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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.

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The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.

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We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

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