That is what you have to do before you kill, I thought. You have to create an it, where none was before.

Where to start is the problem, because nothing begins when it begins and nothing's over when it's over, and everything needs a preface: a preface, a postscript, a chart of simultaneous events.

Time has not stood still. It has washed over me, washed me away, as if I'm nothing more than a woman of sand, left by a careless child too near the water.

Our heaven is their hell, said God. I like a balanced universe.

Love is giving, marriage is buying and selling. You can't put love into a contract.

The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.

The scroll is coming back (Twitter is a scroll.)