“How my imagination soared — the moon seemed so close that I felt I could reach out and touch it. And then my mind wandered: what are those noises outside?”

“All my instincts, they return.
And the grand façade, so soon will burn.
Without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside.”

“I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?”

“The wind is the moon's imagination wandering.”

“My aim is to understand love. I know how alive I felt when I was in love, and I know that everything I have now, however interesting it might seem, doesn't really excited me.
But love is a terrible thing: I've seen my girlfriends suffer and I don't want the same thing to happen to me. … Although my aim is to understand love, and although I suffer to think of people to whom I gave my heart, I see that those who touched my heart failed to arouse my body, and that those who aroused my body failed to touch my heart.”

“I have to speak my mind. Because what is in my mind is always more interesting than what is happening in the world outside my mind.”

“I often think how unadventurous my life must seem from the outside, though I do like my job.”

“Everything that's in [my] books comes out of what I've seen, or touched, or felt, or smelt, and if I had one wish it would be that the books were fiction.”

“If I could be close beside you
If I could be where you are
if I could reach out and touch you
and bring you back home
Is there a way I can find you
Is there a sign I should know
Is there a road I could follow
to bring you back home to me”

“I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips.”