One really ought to be afraid of self-torture. But it tempted me. It begged. The dark place that my mind was fast becoming blends, in my memory, with the dark womb of church: the chant, the fugue of prayer, the strange erotic energy that carving a very small cross into my thigh with a nail had brought.

I wish I could find words to explain what this kind of cold is like- the cold that has somehow gotten in underneath your skin and is getting colder and colder inside you.

The anoretic operates under the astounding illusion that she can escape the flesh, and, by association, the realm of emotions.

You can't teach an ear, you can't teach talent, but you can teach people who have those things not to just fly by the seat of their pants.

Having a normal person around me made it poingnantly clear to me that I was out of control.

And so I went through the looking glass, stepped into the netherworld, where up is down and food is greed, where convex mirrors cover the walls, where death is honor and flesh is weak. It is ever so easy to go. Harder to find your way back.

I'm a driven perfectionist, very self-critical.