Some people mistakenly think nature is very nice and benevolent and never betrays.

But maybe, underneath, she loves him too much. Maybe it's her excessive love that pushes him away.

I feel like cotton candy: sugar and air. Squeeze me and I’d turn into a small sickly damp wad of weeping pinky-red.

I am rather saddened at the end of a book. I think most writers find this. It's like a friend departing on a voyage.

As an artist your first loyalty is to your art. Unless this is the case, you're going to be a second-rate artist.

We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?

The past is a closed door.