It has been my face. It's got older still, or course, but less, comparatively, than it would otherwise have done. It's scored with deep, dry wrinkles, the skin is cracked. But my face hasn't collapsed, as some with fine feature have done. It's kept the same contours, but its substance has been laid waste. I have a face laid waste.

What stops you killing yourself when you're intoxicated out of your mind is the thought that once you're dead you won't be able to drink any more.

There are many women who write as they think they should write - to imitate men and make a place for themselves in literature.

We, her children, are heroic, dersperate.

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

One must talk. That's how it is. One must.

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