I read Eve Ensler and thought it was fabulous. Not only that, but it was really the only thing I could relate to about cancer.

I love and care about literature, and great writers are our teachers. You're studying their mind when you read their work.

Life is not orderly. No matter how we try to make it so, right in the middle of it we die, lose a leg, fall in love, or drop a jar of applesauce.

Actually, every time we begin, we wonder how we did it before, Each time is a new journey with no maps.

Actually, when I look at my old notebooks, I think I have been a bit self-indulgent and have given myself too much time to meander in my discursive thoughts. I could have cut through sooner. Yet it is good to know about our terrible selves, not laud or criticize them, just acknowledge them. Then, out of this knowledge, we are better equipped to make a choice for beauty, kind consideration and clear truth. We make this choice with our feet firmly on the ground. We are not running wildly after beauty with fear at our backs.

Shut up and write anyway. Don't use anything as an excuse.

At the moment our rational mind stops, hits against a wall ... something else happens. And a bigger mind, like a pearl, rolls in a silver bowl.