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.

I've known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you're more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.

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

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

I've forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I've forgotten them, and now I'm talking to you without them.

She had lived her early years as though she were waiting for something she might, but never did, become.

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