In short: I felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but essential way.

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are.

Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you.

When you feel homesick,’ he said, ‘just look up. Because the moon is the same wherever you go.

...with a grief no less sharp for not being intimate with its object.

The trouble is when people read about authors, they don't feel compelled to read the authors' work.

Even if you need, and want, a second opinion, it can be dangerous to have people telling you what they think you ought to add, or cut, before you've even finished telling your story. One loses heart; one loses energy and interest. Or at least I do.