Mama always taught her children that words were pretty, but anyone can talk. She said, pay attention to that man or woman who acted, who did, who performed. She taught us to trust in thing we could see, not that we heard.

Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.

Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.

Anyone who knows me well must understand and be sympathetic to my genuine need to be my own greatest hero. It is not a flaw of character; it is a catastrophe.

My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.

My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.

I only hope to do well enough before I die to have a house as big as my rich Uncle Ed and Aunt Carole.