Intense love always leads to mourning.

Of two sisters one is always the watcher, one the dancer.

Intense love always leads to mourning.

As I saw it, all my mother's life, my father held her down, like lead strapped to her ankles. She was buoyant by nature; she wanted to travel, go to the theater, go to museums. What he wanted was to lie on the couch with the Times over his face, so that death, when it came, wouldn't seem a significant change.

Desire, loneliness, wind in the flowering almond— surely these are the great, the inexhaustible subjects to which my predecessors apprenticed themselves. I hear them echo in my own heart, disguised as convention.

At the end of my suffering/there was a door.

The unsaid, for me, exerts great power.