I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

Suddenly, all at once, she knows, knows that he doesn't understand her, that he never will, that he lacks the power to understand such perverseness. And that he can never move fast enough to catch her.

It’s not that you have to achieve anything, it’s that you have to get away from where you are.

Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.

She says people ought to learn to live like them, with the body abandoned in a wilderness, and in the mind the memory of a single kiss, a single word, a single look to stand for a whole love.

I don't have general views about anything, except social injustice.

The woman is the home. That's where she used to be, and that's where she still is. You might ask me, What if a man tries to be part of the home -- will the woman let him? I answer yes. Because the he becomes one of the children.