All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.

There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.

Soon he'll come in again and kiss me, but differently. He'll be different and so I'll be different. It'll be different. I thought, 'It'll be different, different. It must be different.

Blot out the moon, Pull down the stars. Love in the dark, for we're for the dark So soon, so soon.

Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.

Life if curious when reduced to its essentials

before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.