“Maybe it’s something which can’t be defined,” Enso Roshi says. “Maybe it’s a question, to be lived.”
“If it is going to kill you,” Enso Roshi says, “then let it kill you.”
“It’s wonderful,” his mother says, and I feel something old and familiar course through my blood. It fillsall four chambers of my heart, and I think maybe, just maybe, it’s happiness.”
“God, this is why I can never live with women. They go off into corners and think, maybe it’s this, maybe it’s that. Ask, woman. Ask.”
“Maybe it’s sad that these are now memories. And maybe it’s not sad.”
“It’s still all “ifs” “buts” and “maybes”.’ ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But if what I’m saying is correct …”