The tamer my love, the farther away it is from love. In fierceness, in heat, in longing, in risk, I find something of love's nature. In my desire for you, I burn at the right temperature to walk through love's fire. So when you ask me why I cannot love you more calmly, I answer that to love you calmly is not to love you at all.

What would it have meant to be happy? What would it have meant if things had been bright, clear, good between us?

My books always begin with a sentence and an image - not necessarily connected.

We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.

What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?

If you continually write and read yourself as a fiction, you can change what's crushing you.

Why is the measure of love loss?