Wondering wanderer in search of wonder, always lost, never found, profane and profound; round and round circling sounds in the maze of the page, musical sage, child of the times, enchanted by rhymes, seeking connection in all forms of art, forgetting her part in everyday matters — invoices, letters — not knowing left from right, hiding alone in a secluded hut, dying from a papercut.

• Getting further lost doesn’t guarantee getting closer to being found.
• If you are lost inside a labyrinth, stop walking — fly.
• I’m neither lost nor found — I’m unbound.
• I’m only myself, but even that is too many.
• Me, Myself and the Other have very different personalities. I keep on pushing Myself while the Other is just laughing at my efforts. I do all the work, but the Other gets all the credit while Myself wishes for another life altogether.
• I wake Myself into being, but deeply inside wonder if we both are just a dream of the Other.
• I’m not autistic — I’m artistic. Both conditions spring from incurable excess of being.
• Who am I? One who thinks these thoughts? What about that deeper part of self that can observe having these thoughts? The deepest “I” is an observer and contemplator, rather than a participant. The composer is, above all, the listener; the deepest urge for being a writer is to be a reader.

If there is consensual love, there must be consensual art, but great art is never consensual — it rips you apart, uses you for its creation, and then leaves you like an empty useless shell. You may resent it, but you can’t help loving it all the same. You may deny your lover, but you can’t deny your calling.

• A composer does not own his sounds; the sounds own him.
• I love what I do, but it’s not mutual.
• An artist’s entrance to eternity requires a fee in disappointment.
• Inspiration may come from the Muse, but insecurity is all my own.
• Be respectful to your Muse. She can hear you.
• Feeling sad after this glorious sunset: I will never be able to create anything like it.
• Creating and lovemaking are similar — if you overanalyze the process, you will never be great at it. You need to give yourself wholly and be carried to the other side of oblivion.
• An artist should never avert his gaze. Look at it. However awful it may be, it’s life, real life in all its majestic and gory glory. What do you see? What do you see? Now, give it form.
• The difference between art and life: art magnifies; life diminishes.
• Time is a void, which needs art as its material. Without the arts, Time’s monumental nonexistence would become too apparent.

I never know what to say when asked about my occupation. It’s such a strange word! How can one occupy a profession? And does it imply that you are taking forcefully someone else’s space to which you have no right? Suddenly, your job takes the form of a war zone and you stand alone and lost, staring at a hostile blank page.

• Job description: putting black dots on five horizontal lines. The strangest thing is — I’m making a living doing that.
• I work on surviving my work.
• My fees are too high? But you are not paying for my work; I work for free. My fees are for all the time I’ll spend procrastinating.
• Writer’s block: accumulated procrastination.
• Cold pizza for breakfast: writer on a deadline. Breakfast in the afternoon: writer without a deadline.
• All human activities gravitate toward clutter. Effortlessly, the desk becomes cluttered, the belongings, relationships, responsibilities…. I crave for less while more is spreading its web, feeding on my remaining strength.
• I wish I would be taken care of by invisible gnomes. They would cook and clean, take care of groceries and laundry, write checks and fill out forms. They would also refill my bank account. I would never see them face to face or even be certain of their existence.

Young people are unashamed of big words or concepts. Avoiding them is a sign of maturity; scorning them is a sign of old age. You are as old as the skeptic within you.

• The main advantage of youth is its ignorant fearlessness, which can be more powerful than all of the combined wisdom and experience of old age.
• Time is gray in color and cold to the touch.
• The present moment lasts between two heartbeats, yet contains a lifetime.
• Sometimes I look at an old photograph of myself. I’m five years old, sitting on top of the trunk of my father’s car, looking straight ahead with such heart-wrenching trust and seriousness…. I hope that I did not betray you too much, child. I hope that we are not too irrevocably apart.
• Childhood is an island outside of time. Wish I had never moved to the mainland.
• Children are immortal until they learn the fairy tale of time.

My grandfather always requested that I wash my hands before touching a book. He worshiped his library. To bend a page was a sacrilege worthy of spanking. “It’s only a book. It’s not going to break,” I would object. “Write your own books. Then see if they are breakable,” he would answer.

• I never planned to write this book, but this book had other plans.
• I feel like a trespasser in my own book.
• The eyes of my readers leave bruises on my skin.
• Don’t tear pages from my life.
• Every book is just that — a collection of words, random findings in which memories hide.
• A good read doesn’t equal a good book, but a good book is always a good read.
• Looking at the books in my library: Which ones will I never read? They will all outlive me. They will bear witness.
• Hardcover books are imposing: They know they will survive you. Paperbacks are more perishable, thus friendlier. Electronic books are frightening: They are bodiless ghosts, messengers from another world.
• I am defenseless before my reader. I stand naked while he is clothed. He knows my secrets. I don’t even know his name. He resents me for wasting his time. I feel a priori guilty. He’s free to judge. I’m constantly wounded. He’s superior in his anonymity. I’m vulnerable in my openness. Yet I would not trade places. He is my convex mirror.
• Reader be grateful: This book could have been a memoir.
• I don’t think in order to write. I write in order to think.

There is no progress in art. Art denies Darwinism. Stravinsky is not better than Mozart and Mozart is not better than Bach. Picasso is not better than Rembrandt. There is no progress — only linguistic or stylistic changes reflecting the times.

• Can regress be considered progress?
• Times rarely change, but our scars weigh us down.
• Art creates Time. Time creates Art.
• Artist is the chronographer of Time.
• I’m one with my song, yet my song is infinitely better than I am.