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

... we have so many voices in us, how do we know which ones to obey?

In a way Winter is the real Spring - the time when the inner things happen, the resurgence of nature.

Writers are always anxious, always on the run--from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.

In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

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

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