Once she was out of the car and gone, my world was suddenly hollow and meaningless.

There's not much you can do about time - it just keeps on passing. But experience? Don't tell me that. I'm not proud of it, but I don't have any sexual desire. And what sort of experience can a writer have if she doesn't feel passion? It'd be like a chef without an appetite.

It's my motto for life. 'Walk slowly; drink lots of water.

It's the real world, full of gaps and inconsistencies and anticlimaxes.

As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around.

I realize now that the reality of things is not something you convey to people but something you make.

There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose--a gleaming, round saucer--over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul--or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon.