I have forgotten my rave reviews and memorized my vicious ones - like most writers.

what was time but a convention, a habit of mind, a custom of dress?

Each day that I don't write I get more fragmented.

I think I've become more cynical about sex. Meaning, I don't think sex in and of itself leads to an epiphany.

We were not human beings going through spiritual experiences; we were spiritual beings going through human experiences, in order to grow.

What was the point of spending your life with someone you were always looking for ways to decieve?

When I was a ten-year old bookworm and used to kiss the dust jacket pictures of authors as if they were icons, it used to amaze me that these remote people could provoke me to love.