“No ‘we’ should be taken for granted when the subject is looking at other people’s pain.”

The truth is balance. However the opposite of truth, which is unbalance, may not be a lie.

Mallarme said that everything in the world exists in order to end in a book. Today everything exists to end in a photograph.

Today everything exists to end in a photograph.

Instead of just recording reality, photographs have become the norm for the way things appear to us, thereby changing the very idea of reality and of realism.

To be an artist or a writer is to be this weird thing – a hand worker in an era of mass production.

Kindness, kindness, kindness. I want to make a New Year’s prayer, not a resolution. I’m praying for courage.

If tragedy is an experience of hyperinvolvement, comedy is an experience of underinvolvement, of detachment.

Do stuff. be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration’s shove or society’s kiss on your forehead. Pay attention. It’s all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager.

Societies need to have one illness which becomes identified with evil, and attaches blame to its victims.

Real art has the capacity to make us nervous.

My idea of a writer: someone interested in everything.

Shouting has never made me understand anything.

Fear of sexuality is the new, disease-sponsored register of the universe of fear in which everyone now lives.

I want to be able to be alone, to find it nourishing – not just a waiting.

I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.

A good book is an education of the heart. It enlarges your sense of human possibility what human nature is of what happens in the world. It’s a creator of inwardness.

As I feel your heart shatter like sand through my helpless fingers I envision ripples through the tar of your blood.

Reflected eyes held pain from too many vain attempts to find love in other people.

I see the pain you hide inside you, those shadows that haunt your eyes, let tears of liquid darkness flow until space is made for light.

As I feel your heart shatter like sand through my helpless fingers I envision ripples through the tar of your blood.

Today I woke up in fear. Tomorrow I wake up in pain. Still, in a year I will wake up in vain.

Trees have heard the echoes mountains have cried in despair all alone.

Caution: I’m broken, and sometimes my sharp edges hurt the ones that get too close.

She deserved the sun yet all he gave was rain and while she needed both to bloom she couldn’t forget the pain.