The parts of me that used to think I was different or smarter or whatever, almost made me die.

I felt, as I became a later and later bloomer, alienated not just from my own recalcitrant glabrous little body but in a way from the whole elemental exterior I'd come to see as my co-conspirator.

...loneliness is not a function of solitude.

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece electrostatic / And everywhere Mary went, the lights became erratic.

There are very few innocent sentences in writing.

This might be one way to start talking about differences between the early postmodern writers of the fifties and sixties and their contemporary descendants.

Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.