Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.

She said the reason that love is so painful is that it always amounts to two people wanting more than two people can give.

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.

...people liking you or not liking you is an accident and is to do with them and not you. That goes for love too, only more so.

literature is the last banquet between minds.

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

The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.