That is the mystery: Reading Henry James can yield prose that is contrary to James, yet inspired by him. Who can understand this?

By the way of connecting with subject, with theme, I was able to find a kind of lifeline. Writing's like a lifeline. You have to get the right way in. Otherwise the material just lies there, and you can't do anything with it.

Night comes to the desert all at once, as if someone turned off the light.

In families there are frequently matters of which no one speaks, nor even alludes. There are no words for these matters. As the binding skeleton beneath the flesh is never acknowledged by us and, when at last it defines itself, is after all an obscenity.

The best revenge is living well without you.

That's how a thing starts out real then ends up just an idea.

Memory blurs, that's the point. If memory didn't blur you wouldn't have the fool's courage to do things again, again, again, that tear you apart.