I Don't Want To Be A Tree;

I Need A Moment Of Time For Myself Every Day, Like A Child Playing With His Things. When I Travel, I Routinely Find A Quiet Place, Open My Diary And Write Something In It.

Now Everyone Is Prouder And Poorer

I Need The Pain Of Loneliness To Make My Imagination Work.

I Don't Want To Be A Tree; I Want To Be Its Meaning.

In Poetically Well Built Museums, Formed From The Heart's Compulsions, We Are Consoled Not By Finding In Them Old Objects That We Love, But By Losing All Sense Of Time.