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

Promiscuity is the death of love.

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

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

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.

what makes us so afraid is the thing we half see, or half hear, as in a wood at dusk, when a tree stump becomes an animal and a sound becomes a siren. And most of that fear is the fear of not knowing, of not actually seeing correctly.

I'm a tuning fork, tense and twanging all the time.