Sometimes when I'm with you, I remember things I lost when I was your age. Like I remember the sound of the rain and the smell of the wind.

Those were strange days, now that I look back at them. In the midst of life, everything revolved around death.

Sometimes when I think of life, I feel like a piece of driftwood washed up on shore.

One listless day followed another, with nothing to distinguish one from the next. You could have changed the order and no one would have noticed.

That's gotta be one of the principles behind reality. Accepting things that are hard to comprehend, and leaving them that way.

Good style happens in one of two ways: the writer either has an inborn talent or is willing to work herself to death to get it.

Life is so uncertain: you never know what could happen. One way to deal with that is to keep your pajamas washed.