It was part of being a girl in the '60s that you were creative.

They had, finally, the only thing anyone really wants in life: someone to hold your hand when you die.

Once love had seemed like magic. Now it seemed like tricks.

I had never feared insomnia before--like prison, wouldn't it just give you more time to read?

There seemed nothing so true as a yellow tree.

Love is the answer, said the songs, and that's OK. It was OK, I supposed, as an answer. But no more than that. It was not a solution; it wasn't really even an answer, just a reply.

Basically, I realized I was living in that awful stage of life between twenty-six to and thirty-seven known as stupidity. It's when you don't know anything, not even as much as you did when you were younger, and you don't even have a philosophy about all the things you don't know, the way you did when you were twenty or would again when you were thirty-eight.