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

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I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

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A light here required a shadow there.

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But I don't think of the future, or the past, I feast on the moment. This is the secret of happiness, but only reached now in middle age.

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

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Intimacy is a difficult art.

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

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

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Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.

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