In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

History is said to be written by the victors. Fiction, by contrast, is largely the work of injured bystanders.

Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.

Promiscuity is the death of love.

Writing is the product of a deeply disturbed psyche, and by no means therapeutic.

It was the first time that I came face to face with madness and feared it and was fascinated by it.

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