I stood there in the shadowed doorway thinking with my tears. Yes, tears can be thoughts, why not?

Can you stop your mother from singing to you? Who would do such a thing?

To think about love and passion and political correctness all together, it doesn't work. Art has to go way past the political to be effective.

Women are strong, strong, terribly strong. We don't know how strong until we are pushing out our babies. We are too often treated like babies having babies when we should be in training, like acolytes, novices to high priestesshood, like serious applicants for the space program.

I always have some way of putting the stories together that works for the book. I've always switched points of view in my books. I'm a Gemini.

How come we've got these bodies? They are frail supports for what we feel. There are times I get so hemmed in by my arms and legs I look forward to getting past them. As though death will set me free like a traveling cloud... I'll be out there as a piece of the endless body of the world feeling pleasures so much larger than skin and bones and blood.

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.