The universe, which is not merely the stars and the moon and the planets, flowers, grass and trees, but other people, has evolved no terms for your existence, has made no room for you, and if love will not swing wide the gates, no other power will or can. And if one despairs-- as who has not?-- of human love, God's love alone is left.

Do I really want to be integrated into a burning house?

What passes for identity in America is a series of myths about one's heroic ancestors.

One writes out of one thing only - one's own experience.

You write in order to change the world.

The interior life is a real life, and the intangible dreams of people have a tangible effect on the world.

I was in his hands, he called me by the thunder at my ear. I was in his hands: I was being changed; all that I could do was cling to him. I did not realize, until I realized it, that I was also kissing him, that everything was breaking and changing and turning in me and moving toward him.