“One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else.”

Whatever path you choose will take you to the same destination. The only thing that should guide you is your intuition.

For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.

You may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn’t to save you but to show you how to save yourself.

The things that seem to matter less, are the ones we put on show.

You were none, and now you’re all; your worth will rise, the more I fall.

Love is a dormant volcano, lying in wait, biding its time.

I did not know that it was love until I knew.

Take me someplace where I can feel something-I want to give away my heart. Tell me his name so I can know love when it speaks to me. Give me someone I can write about.

I loved you once and now I must spend my whole life explaining why.

And the weather was so damn sick of being predictable; I heard it began snowing in the Sahara and I wanted to tell you that I’ve changed.

That night, we talked the way old friends do, with candor and ease.

If you have to be with someone at all, then be with someone who makes you feel like you are still in control.

We number our days and divide our seasons. We endlessly define what it is to be in love. When in truth, spring blurs into summer and always has, long before that line was ever drawn.

I will celebrate this life of mine, with or without you. The moon does not need the sun to tell her she is already whole.

You said my sadness was like the sun, beautiful from a distance but it hurt you too much to come closer.

When you don’t have the whole attention of someone, you find yourself begging for it from everyone.

On a day when these things shall be heated in hell-fire, and their foreheads, and their sides, and their backs shall be branded therewith.

I like to isolate myself when I work because I end up losing my voice by doing interviews all day.

The world gets better every day – then worse again in the evening.

September 2001. A sunny day in New York. Many of us who are writers were at work on the transformation of life into a poem, story, a chapter of a novel, when terror pounced from the sky, and the world made witness to it.

We are the most focused company that I know of or have read of or have any knowledge of. We say no to good ideas every day.

Three hours a day will produce as much as a man ought to write.

And then you walk into a room one day, whether it’s at university or an office or some kind of club, and you just go, ‘Ah. There they are.’ And suddenly you feel at home.

I play the piano passionately and inaccurately. Indeed, I worked out the other day that of my seventy-five years; I have spent at least one year sitting on a piano stool.