I believe that always, or almost always, in all childhoods and in all the lives that follow them, the mother represents madness. Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.

Even so you have managed to live that love in the only way possible for you. Losing it before it happened.

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

It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

I acquired that drinker's face before I drank. Drink only confirmed it. The space for it existed in me.

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.

I am dead. I have no desire for you. My body no longer wants the one who doesn’t love.