...there are two kinds of writing: the one you write and the one that writes you.

To create was a fundament, to appreciate, a supplement.

What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home. I want to be held. I don't want you to come too close. I want you to scoop me up and bring me home at nights. I don't want to tell you where I am. I want to keep a place among the rocks where no one can find me. I want to be with you.

Myths hook and bind the mind because at the same time they set the mind free: they explain the universe while allowing the universe to go on being unexplained; and we seem to need this even now, in our twentieth-century grandeur.

Unhappiness is selfish, grief is selfish. For whom are the tears?

Why did I walk so purposefully in a straight line? Where would it take me? He went round and round and we got there all the same.

That is what literature offers—a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn't a hiding place. It is a finding place.