The woods seemed all answer and healing and more than enough to live for.

The writer's advantage, in some respects, over those whose expression lies in other fields, is in the privilege of a double - sometimes a triple - living. Pleasure multiplied in the mirrors of words, and pain siphoned off in words.

I am sick of war. Every woman of my generation is sick of war. Fifty years of war. Wars rumored, wars beginning, wars fought, wars ending, wars paid for, wars endured.

things that have cost more than they're worth leave a bitter taste. A taste of salt and sweat.

The question we do not see when we are young is whether we own pride or are owned by it.

... love and fear increase together with a precision almost mathematical: the greater the love is then the greater the fear is.

Everything drops away, comes to be unimportant in the dark. It's like sleep almost. A freedom from self, from ugliness.