Even now, in the final hour of my life...

I exist as I am, that is enough.

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words.

I suspect the truth is that we are waiting, all of us, against insurmountable odds, for something extraordinary to happen to us.

The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.

We are mosaics. Pieces of light, love, history, stars… Glued together with magic and music and words.