An artist paints his own reality.

We are blind to each other's humanity.

A match as a penBlood on the floor as inkThe forgotten gauze cover as paperBut what should I write?I might just manage my addressThis ink is strange

As free as you allow others to be, such freedom you create for yourself.

My private life became public.

I always wanted to be an astronaut.

Both formerly and now, it is only suffering that I describe, and the cessation of suffering.

I spend eight months outlining and researching the novel before I begin to write a single word of the prose.

What's the point of cleaning up your act if you don't have an act?

That's insanity. We must be good all the time.

I think you can always win if you're true to yourself.

And for the last three minutes on the wind of a windless day I have heard the sound of drums and flute.