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

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

Nobody knows anything about Shakespeare the person. It's all legend, it is all rumor.

I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to ask a child about happy, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind. Much easier to let it blow all over you.

Do you wake up as I do, having forgotten what it is that hurts or where, until you move? There is a second of consciousness that is clean again. A second that is you, without memory or experience, the animal warm and waking into a brand new world. There is the sun dissolving the dark, and light as clear as music, filling the room where you sleep and the other rooms behind your eyes.

Writing has to have a great deal of certainty and self-assurance, but it's not arrogant.

Anything outside marriage seems like freedom and excitement.