When I meet a woman whose energy falters at the first barrier,she seems to fade beside my mother.

Despite all their fears, we ask very little of the ones who never loved us. We do not ask for sympathy or pain or compassion. We simply want to know why.

When I meet a woman whose energy falters at the first barrier,she seems to fade beside my mother.

I love going to writers' colonies in pastoral settings where there's nothing to do, but either walk around or read a book or work on your book.

It is a brave and stupid thing, a beautiful thing, to waste one's life for love.

Surely words are just the background music when passion pounces on a soul.

Does love always form, like a pearl, around the hardened bits of life?