[Fiction and poetry] are medicines, they're doses, and they heal the rupture that reality makes on the imagination.

I like to think the price I paid by being open about my private life helped.

They believed that if a mouse found your hair clippings and built a nest with them you got a headache. If the nest was big enough, you might go mad.

I believe in communication; books communicate ideas and make bridges between people.

I never cared about money.

We heal up through being loved, and through loving others. We don't heal by forming a secret society of one - by assessing about the only other 'one' we might admit, and being doomed to disappointment.

They say that every snowflake is different. If that were true, how could the world go on? How could we ever get up off our knees? How could we ever recover from the wonder of it?