“Someone other than I might have used the word “roots”. It is not part of my vocabulary. I don’t like the word, and I like even less the image it conveys. Roots burrow into the ground, twist in the mud, and thrive in darkness; they hold trees in captivity from their inception and nourish them at the price of blackmail: “Free yourself and you’ll die”

“I want to create a root word where the root is “root.” Something like rootree.”

“You’re nothing but an aging sad cliché and I don’t want any part of it anymore. You’ll wind up right here, in a room just like this, twenty years from now paying for what I’ve been giving you for free from someone even younger than I am right now. Only you’ll be twenty years older and nothing more than a broken down image of the man you used to be. Good luck with that.”

“Love, as the poet says, is like the spring. It grows on you and seduces you slowly and gently, but it holds tight like the roots of a tree. You don't know until you're ready to go that you can't move, that you would have to mutilate yourself in order to be free. That's the feeling. It doesn't last, at least it doesn't have to. But it holds on like a steel claw in your chest. Even if the tree dies, the roots cling to you. I've seen men and women give up everything for love that once was.”

“I won’t ever tell someone to never hold on for what might be gone; because if they don’t see it for themselves, my words will be just words.”

“I realize that I only have words and that, from time to time, as I hold them in my arms I am less lonely.”