I didn't have time to sit down and look at the work of a year and choose what to type.

There is something in me maybe someday to be written; now it is folded, and folded, and folded, like a note in school.

I think that my work is easy to understand because I am not a thinker, I am not a... How can I put it? I write the way I perceive, I guess.

When anyone escapes, my heart / leaps up. Even when it's I who am escaped from, / I am half on the side of the leaver.

Once you lose someone it is never exactly the same person who comes back.

Who wants to put together something that will bear some relationship to the vision or memory or experience or story or idea or dream or whatever.

I didn't have time to sit down and look at the work of a year and choose what to type.