My writing process has changed because it's harder to find uninterrupted time.

Sometimes not having any idea where we’re going works out better than we could possibly have imagined.

One must not be shy where language is concerned.

The kind of love that offers its life so easily, so stupidly, is always the love that is not returned.

Maybe the private life wasn't forever. Maybe everyone got it for a little while and then spent the rest of their lives remembering.

I was starting to wonder if I was ready to be a writer, not someone who won prizes, got published and was given the time and space to work, but someone who wrote as a course of life. Maybe writing wouldn't have any rewards. Maybe the salvation I would gain through work would only be emotional and intellectual. Wouldn't that be enough, to be a waitress who found an hour or two hidden in every day to write?

It's easier to love a woman when you can't understand a word she's saying.