Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they'll leave you, sure. There's no return to what was and no way back. There's just emptiness all around, and you in it, like singing up from the bottom of a well, like nothing else, until you harm yourself, until you are a mad dog biting yourself for sympathy. Because there is no relenting.

Be lovely and do no harm.

I have always kept notebooks and I go back to them over and over. They are my compost pile of ideas.

The contents of a house can trigger all sorts of revisions to family history.

I spend my time dwelling on revenge and try to deal with the monsters crawling out of the ashes.

I don't pray. When I was young, I vowed I never would be caught begging God. If I want something I get it for myself. I go to church only to show the old hens they don't get me down.

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