I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.

There may not be one Truth - there may be several truths - but saying that is not to say that reality doesn't exist.

I'm working on my own life story. I don't mean I'm putting it together; no, I'm taking it apart.

This afternoon held that special quality of mournful emptiness I've connected with late Sunday afternoons ever since childhood: the feeling of having nothing to do.

I am too old to have ever been very worried about what "genre" any given book of mine might be. I read everything. I am easily amused.

I have always known that there were spellbinding evil parts for women. For one thing, I was taken at an early age to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Never mind the Protestant work ethic of the dwarfs. Never mind the tedious housework-is-virtuous motif. Never mind the fact that Snow White is a vampire -- anyone who lies in a glass coffin without decaying and then comes to life again must be. The truth is that I was paralysed by the scene in which the evil queen drinks the magic potion and changes her shape. What power, what untold possibilities!

Is anything wrong, dear? the old joke went. No, why? You moved. Just don't move.