The families of rabbits or woodchucks will eat the salad greens just before they are ready to be picked; I plot ways to kill these animals but can never bring myself to do it.

The space between the idea of something and its reality is always wide and deep and dark. The longer they are kept apart—idea of thing, reality of thing—the wider the width, the deeper the depth, the thicker and darker the darkness.

I love planting. I love digging holes, putting plants in, tapping them in. And I love weeding, but I don't like tidying up the garden afterwards.

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

I'm so used to being misunderstood.

I was then at the height of my two-facedness: that is, outside I seemed one way, inside I was another; outside false, inside true.

I am not aware of anything below my neck. I live completely in my head.