Here and there are worms, evidence of the fertility of the soil, caught by the sun, half dead; flexible and pink, like lips.

it's doors I'm afraid of because I can't see through them, its the door opening by itself in the wind I'm afraid of.

... Remember that forgiveness too is a power. To beg for it is a power, and to withold or bestow it is a power, perhaps the greatest.

Freedom, like everything else, is relative.

Extreme good, extreme evil: the abilities required are similar.

Faith is only a word, embroidered.

The temptation is to stay inside; to subside into the kind of recluse whom neighborhood children regard with derision and little awe; to let the hedges and weeds grow up, to allow the doors to rust shut, to lie on my bed in some gown-shaped garment and let my hair lengthens and spread out over the pillow and my fingernails to sprout into claws, while candle wax drips onto the carpet. But long ago I made a choice between classicism and romanticism. I prefer to be upright and contained—an urn in daylight.