I've struggled all my life to get maximum meaning in the simplest possible form.

Their [artists'] essential effort is to catapult themselves wholly, without holding back one bit, into a course of action without having any idea where they will end up. They are like riders who gallop into the night, eagerly leaning on their horse's neck, peering into a blinding rain. And they have to do it over and over again.

The art of being officially old seems to lie in cooperative submission.

Love ... is the honoring of others in a way that grants them the grace of their own autonomy and allows mutual discovery.

artists often lie behind on the field long after the art combine, the broad-bladed harvester of informed criticism, has mowed, bailed, and stored the crop.

I have no home but me.

The end of parenthood is implicit in its beginning: separation.