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

Memoir ... satisfies our need for gossip and intimacy, for testimony and confessional, and in this world of spin, offers a truthful account of what it means to succeed or fail, to love and lose, to break your heart and mend it again.

Our own front door can be a wonderful thing, or a sight we dread; rarely is it only a door.

Stories end in reverie, tragedy, or forgiveness.

Do it from the heart or not at all.

Life is fragmentary, and the pattern that creativity can offer is not one that is imposed, not something rigid, but rather something which can reveal the intrinsic patterns of that fragmentation. Things are in a perpetual dance, but there is an order. It's not really random at all.

When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.