Some stories stayed with you even when you wanted to forget them.

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

Burn me. Drown me. Tell me lies. I will still be who I am.

How could I tell the doctor what was wrong with me? I didn't understand it myself. I couldn't articulate the pain; it was the pain of nothingness. My fear was of the weather, the atmosphere, the very air. What good did safety tips do me now? 'Avoid water, metal objects, rooftops; stay off the telephone in a storm, don't think glass can protect you; even if a storm was 8 miles away, you're still not safe from a strike. Avoid life perhaps that was the answer. The number one safety tip, stay away from it all.

My sorrow is I used to read all the time and now, as a writer, I don't have the time to read.

Others said May was best, that sweet green time when lilacs bloomed and gardens along Main Street were filled with sugary pink peonies and Dutch tulips.

At midnight the wind in the tress can sound like the ocean. The moonlight can make a road appear as endless as the sea.