Learning to love differently is hard, love with the hands wide open, love with the doors banging on their hinges, the cupboard unlocked, the windroaring and whimpering in the rooms.

We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

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.

Nobody hates us as ourselves. In their minds we're not human... They don't hate us because we did something or said something. They make us stand for an evil they invent and then they want to kill it in us.

In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry, a yam of a woman of butter and brass.

I never thought of myself as explaining cats in general. I simply viewed the cats I have known as characters in my life, often as quirky and complex as the humans with whom I have spent time.