I felt tears sting into my eyes, and took a deep swallow of the first champagne I had ever tasted, remembering that I had read somewhere that the monk who invented it said, on first tasting it, 'It is like drinking stars'.

I have a theory that Southern madhouses are full of gifted women who were stifled.

Anger is its own excuse and its own reward.

I think we all get too caught up in doing instead of just being sometimes.

That sinuous southern life, that oblique and slow and complicated old beauty, that warm thick air and blood warm sea, that place of mists and languor and fragrant richness.

I felt tears sting into my eyes, and took a deep swallow of the first champagne I had ever tasted, remembering that I had read somewhere that the monk who invented it said, on first tasting it, 'It is like drinking stars'.

Didn't I say I'd always be your same stars? If you get to missing me, just look up.