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.

Get rid of things or you'll spend your whole life tidying up.

I have never waited for anything the way I've waited for today, when nothing will happen.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.

When it's in a book I don't think it'll hurt any more ...exist any more. One of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.

When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.