Regret, already sogging me down, burst its dam. It seeped into my legs, it pooled in my heart.

Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has.

You used to be able to tell a person's nationality by the face. Immigration ended that. Next you discerned nationality via the footwear. Globalization ended that.

You never get over it, but you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.

One of the reasons that art is important to me is sometimes it actually feels more coherent than life. It orders the chaos.

She could become a spinster, like Emily Dickinson, writing poems full of dashes and brilliance, and never gaining weight.

We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them.