What a damnably lonely profession writing is! In order to do it, one must banish the world, and having banished it, one feels cosmically alone.

Pregnancy seemed like a tremendous abdication of control. Something growing inside you which would eventually usurp your life.

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.

I think professionalism is important, and professionalism means you get paid.

I have lived my life according to this principle: If I'm afraid of it, then I must do it.

Take your life in your own hands, and what happens? A terrible thing: no one to blame.

This is the sad bed of chosen chastity because you are miles and mountains away.