What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.

I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.

The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.

she acquired the certainty of the expansion of time by depth of emotion, range and infinite multiplicity of experience.

My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.

We cannot cure the evils of politics with politics.

All of my creation is an effort to weave a web of connection with the world: I am always weaving it because it was once broken.