You’ll see, there are a million ways to kill off the soft parts of yourself.

I always think to myself, being human, having crushes now, what is it about that person that I really want? What do they represent? More freedom? Someone to care for me more? It's never really about the person.

Maybe all spirits flew to Paris, not only French ones. Could you haunt a place you'd never been?

When you write you have to reside in the unknown for as long as possible.

As a child I made a pact with my mother. I agreed that we were doomed, that she and I abided together in a cocoon of melancholy.

The problem with being a modern woman, I thought, as the front door swung wide, is that you have to pretend to be stronger than you are.

Everything was new, now I’m a junkie, I seem to need more severe doses of experience to feel anything.