I don't read reviews because by then it's too late - whatever anyone says, the book won't change. It is written.

Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid.

I think of myself in a continuum as a woman. Two hundred years ago, it would have been very difficult for me to write at all.

I miss God. I miss the company of someone utterly loyal. I still don't think of God as my betrayer. The servants of God, yes, but servants by their very nature betray. I miss God who was my friend. I don't even know if God exists, but I do know that if God is your emotional role model, very few human relationships will match up to it.

I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.

Whether you want to call it God or the mystery of the cosmos doesn't matter to me.

Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.