The reading eye must do the work to make them live, and so it did, again and again, never the same life twice, as the artist had intended.

That is human nature, that people come after you, willingly enough, provided only that you no longer love or want them.

They took to silence. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a clothed arm, resting on an arm. An ankle overlapping an ankle, as they sat on a beach, and not removed. One night they fell asleep, side by side... He slept curled against her back, a dark comma against her pale elegant phrase.

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

Once you get older, people stop listening to what you say. It's very agreeable once you get used to it.

It's a terrible poison, writing.

I don't like gurus. I don't like people who ask you to follow or believe. I like people who ask you to think independently.