I want to die on your chest but not yet she wrote sometime in the 13th century of our love

If any of you on your journeys see her-shout to me, whistle...he sang, and it became a habit for audiences to shout and whistle in response to those lines. There was nowhere he could hide in such a song that had all of its doors and windows open, so that he could walk out of it artlessly, the antiphonal responses blending with him as if he were no longer on stage.

A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands, knowing it is something that feeds him more than water.

This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.

She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.

In Canada pianos needed water. You opened up the back and left a full glass of water, and a month later the glass would be empty. Her father had told her about the dwarfs who drank only at pianos, never in bars.

A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch.