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.

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

When you fall in love, it is spring no matter when. Leaves falling make no difference, they are from another season.

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

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

... a country encapsulates our childhood and those lanes, byres, fields, flowers, insects, suns, moons and stars are forever reoccurring.

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