Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.

You are built to pull a cart, to lift a heavy load and bear it, to haul up the long slope, and so am I, peasant bodies, earthy, solid shapely dark glazed clay pots that can stand on the fire.

Purple as tulips in May, mauve into lush velvet, purple as the stain blackberries leave on the lips, on the hands, the purple of ripe grapes sunlit and warm as flesh.

We can only know what we can truly imagine. Finally what we see comes from ourselves.

I think we validate our lives through our actions.

Where I came from, the nights I had wandered and survived scared them, and where I would go they never imagined.

I don't think writers change the past any more than other people do, except in so far as we may mine our lives and change things for fictional use.