Anger is its own excuse and its own reward.

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

Laughter nibbled at my lips like tiny fish in warm water.

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.

Anger is its own excuse and its own reward.

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

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