How can one build a better self unless on the ruins of the old?

That's the trouble with provincial life. Everyone knows everyone and there is no mystery. No romance.

The supposed great misery of our century is the lack of time.

Love is the mystery between two people, not the identity.

I knew words were like chains, they held me back . . . the act of description taints the description.

The moon hung over the planet Earth, a dead thing over a dying thing.

It's like the day you realize dolls are dolls. I pick up my old self and I see it's silly. A toy I've played with too often. It's a little sad, like an old golliwog at the bottom of the cupboard. Innocent and used-up and proud and silly.