In time we often become one with those we once failed to understand.

The Lord gives us wings He gives us a stomach we can fly or vomit

I’m sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.

For a time Robert protected me, then was dependent on me, and then possessive of me. His transformation was the rose of Genet, and he was pierced deeply by his blooming.

Christ was a man worthy to rebel against, for he was rebellion itself.

When we awoke he greeted me with his crooked smile, and I knew he was my knight.

We would work side by side for hours, in a state of mutual concentration.

Smile for me, Patti, as I am smiling for you.

The Chelsea was like a doll’s house in the Twilight Zone, with a hundred rooms, each a small universe.

The transformation of the heart is a wondrous thing, no matter how you land there.

Everything I came up with seemed irreverent or irrelevant.

We promised that we'd never leave one another again, until we both knew we were ready to stand on our own. And this vow, through everything we were yet to go through, we kept.

Somehow I started introducing writing into my drawings, and after a time, the language took over and I started getting very involved with the handwriting and then the look of the handwriting.

I knew he didn't love me, but I adored him anyway.

There's always new stuff, that's for sure.

The dark stone in my heart pulsed quietly, igniting like a coal in a hearth. Who is in my heart? I wondered.

A real prison breakfast" I said. "Yeah, but we are free." And that summed it up.

I craved honesty, yet found dishonesty in myself. Why commit to art? For self-realization, or for itself? It seemed indulgent to add to the glut unless one offered illumination.

A wind picked up and I could feel the sea within it.

I may not know what is in your mind, but I know how your mind works.

All I needed for the mind was to be led to new stations. All I needed for the heart was to visit a place of greater storms.

In my way of thinking, anything is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all.

We seek to stay present, even as the ghosts attempt to draw us away.

My great quandary was what coat to wear and which books to bring.

I was too curious about the future to look back.

Kristus var en v rdig man att g ra uppror mot, f r han var sj lv upproret personifierat.

[W]ithout a doubt we sometimes eclipse our own dreams with reality.

Oh, to be reborn within the pages of a book.

Lost things. They claw through the membranes, attempting to summon our attention through an indecipherable mayday. Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speak. We have forgotten how to listen.

Stories only happen to those who are able to tell them.

It seems to me that I will always be happy in the place where I am not.

When a person is lucky enough to live inside a story, to live inside an imaginary world, the pains of this world disappear. For as long as the story goes on, reality no longer exists.

You're too good for this world, and because of that the world will eventually crush you.

One should never underestimate the power of books.

Libraries aren't in the real world, after all. They're places apart, sanctuaries of pure thought. In this way I can go on living on the moon for the rest of my life.

All men contain several men inside them, and most of us bounce from one self to another without ever knowing who we are.

We all want to believe in impossible things, I suppose, to persuade ourselves that miracles can happen.

It always stimulates me to discover new examples of my own prejudice and stupidity, to realize that I don't know half as much as I think I do.

You can't put your feet on the ground until you've touched the sky.

The truth of the story lies in the details.

Memory is the space in which a thing happens for a second time.

The story is not in the words; it's in the struggle.

We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that's the thread that we follow from one day to the next. People who disintegrate as personalities are the ones who lose that thread.

We have missed him in the sunshine, in the storm, in the twilight, ever since.

But lost chances are as much a part of life as chances taken, and a story cannot dwell on what might have been.

And now we get to the hard part. the endings, the farewells, and the famous last words. if you don't hear from me often, remember that you're in my thoughts.

In the end, each life is no more than the sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own lack of purpose.

Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he’s there, he’s not really there.

Something happens, Blue thinks, and then it goes on happening forever. It can never be changed, can never be otherwise.

Nothing lasts, you see, not even the thoughts inside you. And you musn't waste your time looking for them. Once a thing is gone, that is the end of it.