My writing is full of lives I might have led.

Before I undertake a lengthy project, I have usually given much thought to it over a period of years. My files are filled with likely subjects - which perhaps, one day, I will develop.

Ideas brush past fleeting and insubstantial as moths. But I let them go, I don't want them. What I want is a voice.

She examined me, she looked at me critically and said, "Why are you trying to starve yourself?" To keep myself from feeling love, from feeling lust, from feeling anything at all.

I want to tell you that I love you I want to tell you that I love you I want to tell you that I love I love I love I love but you do not.

Strange: how when a light is extinguished, it's immediately as if it has never been. Darkness fills in again, complete.

Art does the same things dreams do. We have a hunger for dreams and art fulfills that hunger. So much of real life is a disappointment. That's why we have art.