We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

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.

I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.

Anxiety is loves greatest killer.

Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh ... without destroying that moment.

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.