Later as the day cools and they have gone in, the cry of the corncrake will carry across those same fields and over the lake to the blue-hazed mountain, such a lonely evening sound to it, like the lonely evening sound of the mothers, saying it is not our fault that we weep so, it is nature's fault that makes us first full, then empty.

Cities, in many ways, are the best repositories for a love affair. You are in a forest or a cornfield, you are walking by the seashore, footprint after footprint of trodden sand, and somehow the kiss or the spoken covenant gets lost in the vastness and indifference of nature. In a city there are places to remind us of what has been.

Writers really live in the mind and in hotels of the soul.

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

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

Money talks, but tell me why all it says is just Goodbye.

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