We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality.

I have been loved,' she said, 'by something strange, and it has forgotten me.

To love without criticism is to be betrayed.

Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity.

Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.

I like my human experience served up with a little silence and restraint. Silence makes experience go further and, when it does die, gives it that dignity common to a thing one had touched and not ravished

I've seen death and I didn't like it.