She tended to be impatient with that sort of intellectual who, for all his brilliance, has never been able to arrive at the simple conclusion that to be reasonably happy you have to be reasonably good.

He said, "You have pigs in this poem; pigs are not poetic." I got up and walked out of that class and never went back.

Our masks, always in peril of smearing or cracking, in need of continuous check in the mirror or silverware, keep us in thrall to ourselves, concerned with our surfaces.

She tended to be impatient with that sort of intellectual who, for all his brilliance, has never been able to arrive at the simple conclusion that to be reasonably happy you have to be reasonably good.

You cannot meet someone for a moment, or even cast eyes on someone in the street, without changing. That is my subject.

You write for the people in high school who ignored you. We all do.

We live in wonder, blaze in a cycle of passion and apprehension.