jealousy is the direct result of self-betrayal.

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

What matters is the imaginative truth.

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

We hide the truer part of ourselves when we love.

We all leave one another. We die, we change - it's mostly change - we outgrow our best friends; but even if I do leave you, I will have passed on to you something of myself; you will be a different person because of knowing me; it's inescapable.

There are times when the thing we are seeing changes before our very eyes, and if it is a landscape we praise nature, and if it is celestial we invoke God, but if it is a loved one who defects, we excuse ourselves and say we have to be somewhere and are already late for our next appointment. We do not stay to put pennies over the half-dead eyes.