Poems, like dreams, are a sort of royal road to the unconscious. They tell you what your secret self cannot express.

Books go out into the world, travel mysteriously from hand to hand, and somehow find their way to the people who need them at the times when they need them ... Cosmic forces guide such passings-along.

Sex is God's joke on the human race ... if we didn't have sex to make us ridiculous, She would have had to think up something else instead.

The perfect man is the true partner. Not a bed partner nor a fun partner, but a man who will shoulder burdens equally with you and possess that quality of joy.

Is there no Villain in this World who doth not regard himself as a poor abus'd Innocent, no She-Wolf who doth not think herself a Lamb, no Shark who doth not fancy that she is a Goldfish?

You must find the right voice (or voices) for the timbre that can convince a reader to give himself up to you.

The hardest part is believing in yourself at the notebook stage. It is like believing in dreams in the morning.