Love drains you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.

For love to last, you had to have illusions or have no illusions at all. But you had to stick to one or the other. It was the switching back and forth that endangered things.

One had to build shelters. One had to make pockets and live inside them.

I would never understand photography, the sneaky, murderous taxidermy of it.

She was afraid, and the afraid, she realized, sought opportunities for bravery in love.

Love is art, not truth. It’s like painting scenery.

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.