Walter loves the sea, and I need it in some elemental way that I cannot even come close to verbalizing. I become dim and shriveled somehow at my very core if I am away from the sea too long. When I return to it I seem to fill up and overflow with it, soaking in the vast, sighing wetness of it like a parched vine in a long, soft spring rain.

I don't know if I would do sequels. I almost feel like when I'm done with them, they're going to have to find their own way.

I think every creative impulse that a working writer, or artist of any sort has, comes out of that dark old country where dreams come from.

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

Life can only be kept by giving it away. But then it will bloom.

It's unimaginable to me that I wouldn't write, but it's very imaginable that I won't write for a little while.

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