Work is its own cure. You have to like it better than being loved.

Obviously I find women more interesting than men to write about.

The real writer is one who really writes.

All women are misfits. We do not fit into this world without amputations.

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

The mind wraps itself around a poem. It is almost sensual, particularly if you work on a computer. You can turn the poem round and about and upside down, dancing with it a kind of bolero of two snakes twisting and coiling, until the poem has found its right and proper shape.

We must shine with hope, stained glass windows that shape light into icons, glow like lanterns borne before a procession. Who can bear hope back into the world but us.