It is good for a man to invite his ghosts into his warm interior, out of the wild night, into the firelight, out of the howling dark.

Ice burns, and it is hard to the warm-skinned to distinguish one sensation, fire, from the other, frost.

Human beings love stories because they safely show us beginnings, middles and ends.

Everything is surprising, rightly seen.

You did not so much mind being -conventionally- betrayed, if you were not kept in the dark, which was humiliating, or defined only as a wife and dependent person, which was annihilating.

Once upon a time, when men and women hurtled through the air on metal wings, when they wore webbed feet and walked on the bottom of the sea, learning the speech of whales and the songs of the dolphins, when pearly-fleshed and jewelled apparitions of Texan herdsmen and houris shimmered in the dusk on Nicaraguan hillsides, when folk in Norway and Tasmania in dead of winter could dream of fresh strawberries, dates, guavas and passion fruits and find them spread next morning on their tables, there was a woman who was largely irrelevant, and therefore happy.

…my Solitude is my Treasure, the best thing I have.