I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness. We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew he wasn't thinking of me. He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push me through to somewhere else. Why does anyone ever make love?

There's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself.

Hunting will never feed lots of people; it will always be a hobby.

Factory farming, of course, does not cause all the world's problems, but is is remarkable just how many of them intersect there.

Sometimes you have to put your fears in order.

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

... the man took my passport and asked me the purpose of my visit, I wrote in my daybook, 'To mourn,' and then, 'To try to live,' he gave me a look and asked if I would consider that business or pleasure, I wrote, 'Neither.' 'For how long do you plan to mourn and try to live?' I wrote, 'For the rest of my life.