...which causes me to wonder, my own purpose on so many days as humble as the spider's, what is beautiful that I make? What is elegant? What feeds the world?

Society is like this card game here, cousin. We got dealt our hand before we were even born, and as we grow we have to play as best as we can.

When women age into their power, no wind can upset them, no hand turn aside their knowledge, no fact can deflect their point of view.

I make very involved drawings, even little structures, and try using design to figure out the rhythm of a plot. If there are several narrators then a clue has to pop up in the first line. There have to be certain grammatical clues, or distinctive names.

What happens when you let an unsatisfactory present go on long enough? It becomes your entire history.

It is easy to take away the world that we think is so permanent and reliable.

I knew each person's delusion, the places their records had scratched, where the sounds repeated.