You know, you want to be outrageous when you're young, so all the young people say, "Oooh . . ." Now my tactics are different.

The truth has a strange way of following you, of coming up to you and making you listen to what it has to say.

Each book gets harder, each book gets harder and harder. I always feel like crying when I have to write.

I was silent as a child, and silenced as a young woman; I am taking my lumps and bumps for being a big mouth, now, but usually from those whose opinion I don't respect.

I realize that when I moved out of my father’s house I shocked and frightened him because I needed a room of my own, a space of my own to reinvent myself.

The thoughts of letting go of everything I love overwhelms like a tsunami of sorrow.

There [DreamTigers by Jorge Luis Borges] were these little fablesque things, you know, dream tigers, beautiful, beautiful pieces that when you read them had the power of a long piece, but they were prose, and they had the power of poetry, in that the last line wasn't the end, it was a reverberation, like when you tap on a glass made of crystal, and it goes ping.