“It’s on the field, it’s on the pane, it’s in the sky — beauty; and I can’t get at it; I can’t have it — I, she seemed to add, with that little clutch of the hand which was so characteristic, who adore it so passionately, would give the whole world to possess it!”

“If it’s invisible, I can’t remember if it’s there or not. And not only that, but I can’t even remember what it is.”

“It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once. So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.”

“A part of me wants to believe that I was born an artist. That it was my inexorable destiny to become a writer. I can’t see any other way, I can’t see a different path. It makes being an artist something special. The world can’t stop me, simply because I am who I am. There’s nothing that can define me more than being an artist. It’s simple, it’s easy to understand, and it adds an almost transcendental element to art.”

“It’s my baby. I can’t just let her give it away—”

“I don’t know anything about art so I can’t tell you that it’s watercolor or acrylic or that it’s on canvas or anything art related at all. I can tell you that it’s a painting of a hand, my hand, turned up and opened to the world and that it reaches into my body and rips out everything that’s left. Because in the palm, right in the center, is the pearl button I never reached.”