Don't worry about trying to do a perfect job. There is no perfect job. There is no one way of raising your children.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
Perhaps that's what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that's what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle, I'm the partition, I've two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that's what I feel, myself vibrating, I'm the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don't belong to either.
An arts degree is like a diploma in origami. And about as much use.
I'm not a patient person.
My own personal connection with God was not in a religious sense, so I wasn't really thinking in that way when I got the role and when I started doing it.
Every shy person is a potential sex offender.