What I wanted to do was to fasten my index finger and thumb at the bolts of your collar bone, push out, spread the web of my hand until it caught against your throat. You asked me if I wanted to strangle you. No, I wanted to fit you, not just in the obvious ways but in so many indentations.

I dreamed I was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.

Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

There is no sense in loving someone you can never wake up to except by chance.

Very often history is a means of denying the past.

Trust me, I'm telling you stories. ... I can change the story. I am the story.

Quoting her mother: The trouble with a book is you never know what's in it until it's too late!