I always say that a poet loves the world, and the prose writer needs to create an alternative world.

I'm not nearly smart enough or imaginative enough to tackle the novel form. Never happen.

Mother’s particular devils had remained mysterious to me for decades. So had her past. Few born liars ever intentionally embark in truth’s direction, even those who believe that such a journey might axiomatically set them free.

I get about five memoirs per week in my mailbox, and few of them inspire anything but a desire to pick up the channel changer.

When you do try to picture the boys who do ask you out, they're absolutely featureless, like old carvings eroded by centuries of rain and wind.

If you lie to your husband - even about something so banal as how much you drink - each lie is a brick in a wall going up between you, and when he tells you he loves you, it's deflected away.

The truth is when I went to graduate school I would've said I was among the least talented of the students, I was certainly the least smart, or less educated. But I worked very hard.