Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.

My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.

The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I.

How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.

A cliche is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.

You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.

As a person with terrible handwriting, I love the computer. I've waited all my life for the computer.