He: What’s the matter with you? Me: Nothing. Nothing was slowly clotting my arteries. Nothing slowly numbing my soul. Caught by nothing, saying nothing, nothingness becomes me. When I am nothing they will say surprised in the way that they are forever surprised, "but there was nothing the matter with her.

There are so many separate selves; no one who writes creatively hasn't felt that.

The free man never thinks of escape.

Growing up is difficult. Strangely, even when we have stopped growing physically, we seem to have to keep on growing emotionally, which involves both expansion and shrinkage, as some parts of us develop and others must be allowed to disappear...Rigidity never works; we end up being the wrong size for our world.

The poet will not be satisfied with recording, the poet will have to transform.

Capacity for love in its higher forms seems to be peculiarly human although even in humans it is still peculiar.

I have no idea what happens next.