[Henry Miller] was such a scribomaniac that even when he lived in the same house as Lawrence Durrell they often exchanged letters. For most of his life, Henry wrote literally dozens of letters a day to people he could have easily engaged in conversation - and did. The writing process, in short, was essential. As it is to all real writers, writing was life and breath to him. He put out words as a tree puts out leaves.

Many, many people have done a lot more sexual experimentation than I have.

I convinced myself that sadness and compromise were the ways of the world.

A baby's mother also needs a mother.

Each one an antidote to the one that went before. Each one a reaction, an about-face, a rebound.

Writers are always at the edge of the inferno, and the fire is licking at our toes. Luckily, this turns us on!

Perhaps all artists were, in a sense, housewives: tenders of the earth household.