You wake up one morning, those years are gone. There's a comfort in this fact perhaps. I want to think that there must be comfort in all facts we can't alter.

The danger of motherhood. you relive your early self, through the eyes of your mother.

Stories come to us as wraiths requiring precise embodiments.

It feels good, honey, but it isn't love.

And I’m drawn to failure. I often write about it, and I’m sympathetic with it, I think, because I feel I’m contending with it constantly in my own life.

Reading yields a wish to write, I think, except if the reading is dull and uninspiring.

Acting is the loneliest profession I know.