We say of some things that they can't be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do-we do it all the time.

Hatred is always a sin, my mother told me. Remember that. One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk. I was struck by that and meant to try it, but knew I shouldn’t waste the milk.

Who can ever say the perfect thing to the poet about his poetry?

I read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same.

The complexity of things - the things within things - just seems to be endless. I mean nothing is easy, nothing is simple.

In dreams you can have the feeling that you've had this dream before, that you have this dream over and over again, and you know that it's really nothing that simple. You know that there's a whole underground system that you call 'dreams,' having nothing better to call them, and that this system is not like roads or tunnels but more like a live body network, all coiling and stretching, unpredictable but finally familiar - where you are now, where you've always been.

Because if she let go of her grief even for a minute it would only hit her harder when she bumped into it again.