Stories end in reverie, tragedy, or forgiveness.

We fear passion and laugh at too much love and those who love too much. And still we long to feel.

It's not the one thing nor the other that leads to madness, but the space in between.

The work that lasts over time is the work which still speaks to us when all contemporary interest in that work is extinct.

Don't you think it's strange that life, described as so rich and full, a camel-trail of adventure, should shrink to this coin-sized world? A head on one side, a story on the other. Someone you loved and what happened. That's all there is when you dig in your pockets. The most significant thing is someone else's face. What else is embossed on your hands but her?

I think we still believe that ambition is for boys.

I had been taught to look for monsters and devils and I found ordinary people.