We live on a little island of the articulable, which we tend to mistake for reality itself.

I have never distinguished readily between thinking and dreaming. I know my life would be much different if I could ever say, This I have learned from my senses, while that I have merely imagined.

You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between them but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension.

I do have an impulse to sort of leverage what I say against something I disagree with.

There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, everyone of them sufficient

I am grateful for all those dark years, even though in retrospect they seem like a long, bitter prayer that was answered finally.