She was an auxiliary nurse but training to be a true nurse because that was her calling, to serve mankind. She was a Martha. There were Marys and Marthas, but Marys got all the limelight because of being Christ's handmaiden, but Marthas were far more sincere.

Writing is the product of a deeply disturbed psyche, and by no means therapeutic.

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.

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

Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.

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.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.