I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.