Who you are is a mystery no one can answer, not even you.

No matter how happy I had been in the past I do not long for it. The present is always the moment for which I love.

I would be lost without the feeling of antagonism that people have towards me. I write out of defiance.

I used to want to be a backup singer. Not a lead singer, because I really can't sing.

Gardeners (or just plain simple writers who write about the garden) always have something they like intensely and in particular, right at the moment you engage them in the reality of the borders they cultivate, the space in the garden they occupy at any moment, they like in particular this, or they like in particular that.

All of these declarations of what writing ought to be, which I had myself-though, thank God I had never committed them to paper-I think are nonsense. You write what you write, and then either it holds up or it doesn't hold up. There are no rules or particular sensibilities. I don't believe in that at all anymore.

That is how I came to think that heavy and hard was the beginning of living, real living; and though I might not end up with a mark on my cheek, I had no doubt that I would end up with a mark somewhere.