Wasn't that the way it always was? You didn't know, you couldn't tell, you just let it happen... Perhaps they didn't know themselves. Sometimes the l….

Remember...we don't see objects, we see light. [...] Light can do anything water can do--flow, wash, trickle. It can do anything an artist can do--pa….

How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It ….

purification in fire. public cremation.

Always tell us where we are. And don't just tell us where something is, make it pay off. Use description of landscape to help you establish the emoti….

Life should always be like this. ... Like lingering over a good meal..

I'm always looking for something new and interesting to say. And it can't be something I'm directly experiencing..

He hated crowds, never liked punk. He couldn't handle the nakedness of the rage -his own so sophisticated and finely tuned. He could never see the si….

My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk..

Let me tell you a few things about regret...There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. Sho….

Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that….

Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people..

...I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn't come to the emergency….

It's their skins I'm peeling," she said. "The skins of the insipid scribblers, which I graft to the page, creating monsters of meaninglessness..

That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were t….

without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life..

If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?.

Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched..

she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered..

We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things..

I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to ….