My foregrounds are imaginary, my backgrounds real.

She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.

It's a delicious thing to write. To be no longer yourself but to move in an entire universe of your own creating.

May I die like a dog rather than hasten the ripening of a sentence by a single second!

She did not believe that things could remain the same in different places, and since the portion of her life that lay behind her had been bad, no doubt that which remained to be lived would be better.

Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.

I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.