The solitude of writing is a solitude without which writing could not be produced, or would crumble, drained bloodless by the search for something else to write.

You are what you are and that fascinates me.

When the past is recaptured by the imagination, breath is put back into life.

Fidelity, enforced and unto death, is the price you pay for the kind of love you never want to give up, for someone you want to hold forever, tighter and tighter, whether he's close or far away, someone who becomes dearer to you the more you've sacrificed for his sake.

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'm still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I've never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door.

Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.