Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.

I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.

What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.

That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.

I am obsessive, also I am industrious. Besides, the time when you are most alive and most aware is in childhood and one is trying to recapture that heightened awareness.