I did not sleep. I never do when I am over-happy, over-unhappy, or in bed with a strange man.

There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.

I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.

Countries are either mothers or fathers, and engender the emotional bristle secretly reserved for either sire.

Wherever there were horses or ponies the mushrooms always sprang up.

For me to write I have to be, a, alone, and b, know that nobody is going to question me. I write the way a thief steals; it's a little covert.

We hide the truer part of ourselves when we love.