Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.

She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

It isn't just a village. The houses aren't just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.

I let it go. It's like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home.

A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons. Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood.

I've never been very good at leaving things behind. I tried, but I have always left fragments of myself there too, like seeds awaiting their chance to grow.

I have an advanced degree in procrastination and another one in paranoia.

Some people spend the whole of their lives sitting waiting for one train, only to find that they never even made it to the station.

Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I have a wide circle of friends, wide enough to keep them away from me.

Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.

He had mourned each of those great trains as, one by one, they were pulled off the lines and left to rust in some yard, like old aristocrats, fading away; antique relics of times gone by.

A beautiful book is a victory won in all the battlefields of human thought.

I will say that I've been lucky enough never to have to do a job I didn't want to do, or a play I wasn't in love with.

I really appreciate and respect the audience. People pay their hard-earned money to go watch you, so I feel like it's my job to give 100,000% of myself to what I'm doing.

sorrow...is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it

Written truth is four-dimensional. If we consult it at the wrong time, or read it at the wrong place, it is as empty and shapeless as a dress on a hook.

Nothing conquers except truth and the victory of truth is love.

Many people do not like the idea that time has a beginning, probably because it smacks of divine intervention.