It's a man's world, they say; but in its daily textures it is a world created by and for women.

Human was the music, natural was the static.

Every marriage tends to consist of an aristocrat and a peasant. Of a teacher and a learner.

Nothing seems to matter quite as much. I no longer think about death in the concentrated way I once did. I don't know? you get so old and you sort of give up in some way. You've had your period of angst, your period of religious desperation, and you've arrived at a philosophical position where you don't need, or you can't bear, to look at it.

A narrative is like a room on whose walls a number of false doors have been painted; while within the narrative, we have many apparent choices of exit, but when the author leads us to one particular door, we know it is the right one because it opens.

Don't you see, if when we die there's nothing, all your sun and fields and what not are all, ah, horror? It's just an ocean of horror.

Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them.