Unrequited love is so boring. Weeping under a blue-black sky is for suckers or maniacs.

Perhaps it is possible to discover more in silence than in speech. Or perhaps it is only that those who are silent among us learn to listen.

I feel more influenced in my own work by dreams than I do by other writers' works in a way. Or by popular culture, movies - what else is there to write about than love and loss?

Our house was littered with books- in the kitchen, under the beds, stuck between the couch pillows--far too many for her the ever finish. I suppose I thought if my grandmother kept up her interests, she wouldn't die; she'd have to stay around to finish the books she was so fond of. "I've got to get to the bottom of this one," she'd say, as if a book were no different from a pond or a lake. I thought she'd go on reading forever but it didn't work out that way.

Only her death could prove her innocence; a circle of impossible, deathly judgement.

My mother's blood that would last forever after. The blood of my brother, my grandfather, my father.

Emily Brontë's "Wuthering Heights" was extremely important to me.