Everything one reads is nourishment of some sort - good food or junk food - and one assumes it all goes in and has its way with your brain cells.

One should never turn one's back on a vivid imagination.

She hadn't been given the proper tools to make a real life with, she decided, that was it. She'd been given a can of gravy and a hairbrush and told, "There you go." -- Willing

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

If I retain any freshness of approach, it's by going slowly having long intervals between finished projects.

Forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.

Surrealism could not be made up. It was the very electricity of the real.