Occupation: Author Birth: November 9, 1955
How could anybody confuse truth with beauty, I thought as I looked at him. Truth came with sunken eyes, bony or scarred, decayed. Its teeth were bad,….
When you're a little kid, you are small, your life is small - and you're terrifically aware of that. But when you read, you can ride Arabian horses a….
I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon..
Love's an illusion. It's a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I'd rather have cash..
What happened to a dream without a dreamer?.
Beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer..
After all the fears, the warnings, after all, a woman's mistakes are different from a girl's. They are written by fire on stone. They are a trait and….
The writer is both a sadist and a masochist. We create people we love, and then we torture them. The more we love them, and the more cleverly we tort….
The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box..
Once you get below the floor of our personal identities, we're all connected. Perhaps that's why we can move into others' lives..
The decor bowled me over. Everywhere I looked, there was something more to see. Botanical prints, a cross section of pomegranates, a passionflower vi….
Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge..
Only peons made excusses for themselves she taught me. Never apologize, never explain..
I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill..
Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human..
You can't shape me anymore. I am the uncontrolled element, the random act. I am forward movement in time. You think you can see me? Then tell me, who….
Aquamarines grew with emeralds, Claire told me. But emeralds were fragile and always broke into smaller pieces, while aquamarines were stronger, grew….
There used to be a category called women's fiction - meaning not too rude, not too much sex, a bit domestic and internal. Women have changed so much.….
In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? I….
She wanted to wake up like Dorothy and see Michael's face peering over the side of the bed, laughing. WHY, YOU JUST HIT YOUR HEAD. But it was not a d….
Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an atomic bomb. You know the ones: Was, did, had….