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

I always want to be in love, always. It's like being a tuning fork.

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

I did not sleep. I never do when I am over-happy, over-unhappy, or in bed with a strange man.

never forget this moment, the hum of the bee, the saffron threads of the flower, the drawn blinds, nature's assiduousness and human cruelty.

I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.

There was always a real reason for everything - why spoons tarnished, and jam furred, and people declined into God, or drink, or card games.