It seems like many people think that if you drive yourself crazy, then you can write. I’m absolutely not interested in that. It made sense to me to be as whole and well as I could be, and as happy. I wanted to see what a fortunate life would produce. What writing would come out of a mind that didn’t try to torment itself? What did I have to know? What did I have to do rather than what can I torment and bend myself into doing? What was the fruit on that tree?

As for reality, I don't even have any interest in that word.

Who would have guessed it possible that waiting is sustainable. A place with its own harvest.

The only real access that I have to my mind is when I'm writing.

Action creates/a taste/for itself.

A lot of the job that one has to do as a writer is to protect the thing that doesn't match the world.

It isn't ever delicate to live.