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

My hand does the work and I dont have to think; in fact, were I to think, it would stop the flow. Its like a dam in the brain that bursts.

shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.

... we have so many voices in us, how do we know which ones to obey?

I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.

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.

We hide the truer part of ourselves when we love.