I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.

I write as if I've lived a lot of things I haven't lived.

I'm not interested in cutting the feet off my characters or stretching them to make them fit my certain political view.

I tried to visualize my jealousy as a yellowy-brown cloud boiling around inside me, then going out through my nose like smoke and turning into a stone and falling down into the ground. That did work a little. But in my visualization a plant covered with poison berries would grow out of the stone, whether I wanted it to or not.

He's lost something, some illusion I used to think was necessary to him. He's come to realize he too is human. Or is this a performance, for my benefit, to show me he's up-to-date? Maybe men shouldn't have been told about their own humanity. It's only made them uncomfortable. It's only made them trickier, slier, more evasive, harder to read.

Some travelers think they want to go to foreign places but are dismayed when the places turn out actually to be foreign.

Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.