People talk about love as though it were something you could give, like an armful of flowers. And a lot of people give love like that -- just dump it down on top of you, a useless strong-scented burden.

We are always bargaining with our feelings so that we can live from day to day.

For sleep, one needs endless depths of blackness to sink into; daylight is too shallow, it will not cover one.

The most exhausting thing in life is being insincere.

I had the feeling . . . that my experience was very different from other people’s. (Are we all under this illusion?)

The plane seems exultant now, even arrogant. We did it, we did it! We're up, above you. We were dependant on you just now, prisoners fawning on you for favors, for wind and light. But now, we are free. We are up! We are off! Like someone singing ecstatically, climbing, soaring- a sustained note of power and joy.

I think best with a pencil in my hand.