My thoughts are star I cannot fathom into constellations.
— Would you like to learn to tango, Donna?
— Right now?
— I'm offering you my services, free of charge. What do you say?
— I think I'd be a little afraid.
— Of what?
— Afraid of making a mistake.
— No mistakes in the tango, Donna. Not like life. It's simple. That's what makes the tango so great. If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, just tango on.
When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor.
He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands.
And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did.
I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the back yard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did.
He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did.
He was individual.
He was an important man.
I've never gotten over his death.
Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died.
How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands.
He shaped the world.
He did things to the world.
The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.
It's not love—but she's important to me. I find myself listening for her footsteps down the hallway whenever she's been out.
Oh, man. I can't remember anything without you.