No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.

When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.

The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.

Having chosen this foolishness, I was a free being. How could the world ever stop me, how could I betray myself, if I was not afraid?

There is no such thing as an artist: there is only the world lit or unlit as the light allows. When the candle is burning, who looks at the wick? When the candle is out, who needs it?

I would like to live. . . open to time and death painlessly, noticing everything, remembering nothing, choosing the given with a fierce and pointed will.

She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.