Leave the dishes unwashed and the demands on your time unanswered. Be ruthless and refuse to do what people ask of you.

What a feat of transmission: the emotive powers of the book, with no local habitation, pass safely from writer to reader, unmangled by printing and binding and shipping, renewed and available whenever we open it.

I have done what people do, my life makes a reasonable showing. Can I go back to my books now?

Getting away from being 'a good girl' is important because it's impossible to be a 'good girl' and a writer at the same time.

I have managed not to finish certain books. With barely a twinge of conscience, I hurl down what bores me or doesn't give what I crave: ecstasy, transcendence, a thrill of mysterious connection. For, more than anything else, readers are thrill-seekers, though I don't read thrillers, not the kind sold under that label, anyway. They don't thrill; only language thrills.

The stillness and stasis of bed are the perfect opposite of travel: inertia is what I've come to consider the default mode, existentially and electronically speaking. Bed, its utter inactivity, offers a glimpse of eternity, without the drawback of being dead.

In books I found explicitly, flamboyantly, everything censored in life.