Spring, / you are a pinking shears: you cut / fresh edges on the world.
I believe I belong to the last literary generation, the last generation, that is, for whom books are a religion.
We all have fantasies about sex that are more perfect than anything in reality.
My mother wanted me to be her wings, to fly as she never quite had the courage to do. I love her for that. I love the fact that she wanted to give birth to her own wings.
Being a daughter is only half the equation; bearing one is the other.
Writers tend to be addicted to houses ... We work at home, indulging the agoraphobia endemic to our kind. We are immersed in our surroundings to an almost morbid degree.