I sink down into my body as into a swamp, fenland, where only I know the footing…. I’m a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black.

Anybody who writes a book is an optimist. First of all, they think they're going to finish it. Second, they think somebody's going to publish it. Third, they think somebody's going to read it. Fourth, they think somebody's going to like it. How optimistic is that?

The true story is vicious and multiple and untrue after all. Why do you need it? Don’t ever ask for the true story.

You can't keep a cool head when you're drowning in love. You just trash around a lot and scream, and wear yourself out.

Why are we designed to see the world as supremely beautiful just as we're about to be snuffed? Do rabbits feel the same as the fox teeth bite down on their necks? Is it mercy?

All observations of life are harsh, because life is. I lament that fact, but I cannot change it.

Write down the thoughts and even more, write down a specific line. If you don't, it'll fly away forever.