Marcel Proust

The bonds that unite another person to our self exist only in our mind.

Only through art can we emerge from ourselves and know what another person sees.

The charms of the passing woman are generally in direct proportion to the swiftness of her passing.

I had this wild imagination. I was never me. All my childhood photos, I'm in fancy dress, playing a Russian refuge or Marvelous Mad Madam Mim.

Well, I actually wrote her a letter a couple of days ago congratulating her. The tone I tried to convey in the letter is, look, you are a part of a great American historical process.

Another thing that freaks me out is time. Time is like a book. You have a beginning, a middle and an end. It's just a cycle.