I'm one of the millions of immigrant children, children of loneliness, wandering between worlds that are at once too old and too new to live in.

I was so obsessed and consumed with my grievances that I could not get away from myself and think things out in the light. I was in the grip of that blinding, destructive, terrible thing -- righteous indignation.

Science has salvaged scrap metal and even found vitamins and valuable oils in refuse, but old people are extravagantly wasted.

When I only begin to read, I forget I'm on this world. It lifts me on wings with high thoughts.

The only compensation for the artist is the chance to feed hungry hearts.

Poor people who had escaped from poverty as I had, feared it, hated it and fled from it all their lives. Those born rich could afford to be touched by it.

I too was frightened the first time I felt I hated my father. I felt like a criminal. But could I help it what was inside of me? I had to feel what I felt even if it killed me.