The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave

Books are living things and their task lies in their vows of silence. You touch them as they quiver with a divine pleasure. You read them and they fall asleep to happy dreams for the next 10 years. If you do them the favor of understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart.

We wait for the tortoises to come. We wait for that lady who walks them. That’s how art works. It’s never a jackrabbit, or a racehorse. It’s the tortoises that hold all the secrets. We’ve got to be patient enough to wait for them.

The water was pure and cold and came out of the Apennines tasting like snow melted in the hands of a pretty girl.

She had so mastered the strategies of camouflage that her own history had seemed a series of well-placed mirrors that kept her hidden from herself.

Paranoia has a sharper taste if the danger is real.

We set down feasts for each other and treated our love with tongues of fire. Our bodies were fields of wonder to us.