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.

destruction is ultimately self-destruction.

The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.

I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.

This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.

Things aren't the way they are, they're the way you are

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.