Don't we forgive everything of a lover? We forgive selfishness, desire, guile. As long as we are the motive for it...There are some European words you can never translate properly into another language.

Water is the exile, carried back in cans and flasks, the ghost between your hands and your mouth.

You must talk to me, Caravaggio. Or am I just a book? Something to be read, some creature to be tempted out of a loch and shot full of morphine, full of corridors, lies, loose vegetation, pockets of stones.

You don't want to write your own opinion, you don't want to just represent yourself, but represent yourself through someone else.

A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands, knowing it is something that feeds him more than water.

I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of pre-occuopation.