The trouble with all of us is we are where we shouldn't be.

What he would say, he cannot say to this woman whose openness is like a wound, whose youth is not mortal yet. He cannot alter what he loves most in her, her lack of compromise, where the romance of the poems she loves still sits with ease in the real world. Outside these qualities he knows there is no order in the world.

To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.

Over the years, confusing fragments, lost corners of stories, have a clearer meaning when seen in a new light, a different place.

Love is the use one makes of another.

Jung was absolutely right about one thing. We are occupied by gods. The mistake is to identify with the god occupying you.

It doubles your perception, to write from the point of view of someone you're not.