Madness is like intelligence, you know. You can't explain it. Just like intelligence. It comes on you, it fills you, and then you understand it. But when it goes away you can't understand it at all any longer.

We, her children, are heroic, dersperate.

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.

Life is only lived full-time by women with children.

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.

Oh, how good it is to be with someone, sometimes.

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