a writer is a foreign country

It was the men I deceived the most that I loved the most.

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.

You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die.

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

He wanted to pay her; he thought women ought to be paid for keeping men from dying or going out of their minds.

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.