A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.

there isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.

Life and death matters, yes. And the question of how to behave in this world, how to go in the face of everything. Time is short and the water is rising.

That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.

Write about what you know, and what do you know better than your own secrets?

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.

It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love.

The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places.

Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.

Wanton killing of innocent civilians is terrorism, not a war against terrorism.

She cleans a toilet inside and out under a minute. More like terrifying

Slim Shady, Eminem was the old initials.

Jesus’ words are inseparable from his person. He himself is the message he proclaims.

I have a giant baking book, so I close my eyes and pick a random page. Whatever it is, I try to bake it!

I'd say, don't listen to what anyone says: you're good. Go put your anorak on. Get your thick bottle-top specs. Draw your little cartoons and your comics and keep writing to the BBC.

My identity was stolen by two separate peoplewho I hope are playing me better

What we want is to make sure that people don't go through what I'm going through ... and we have to understand that even since Luke's death, children have been killed.

With modern parts atop old ones, the brain is like an iPod built around an eight-track cassette player.

Take your camera off automatic. You are the photographer.