I'm of the opinion that the real is imagined and the imagined is quite real. The real is imagined, in the sense that we shape our stories, so anything that even happens on the news gets shaped in a certain way and gets a texture, and that the imagined can be real.

He might have been naive, but he didn't care; he said he's rather die with his heart on his sleeve than end up another cynic.

Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.

I want the younger writer to know that she or he is meaningful, that what they have to say is powerful in this world. But they can't come indoors, they can't close the curtains, they can't, like, lock themselves away from the world and say nothing.

You cannot read any image of the World Trade Center without thinking of 9/11.

She was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.

We have to admire the world for not ending on us.