Every sickness has an alien quality, a feeling of invasion and loss of control that is evident in the language we use about it.

Crippled and crazy, we hobble toward the finish line, pen in hand.

I will turn human anatomy into roses and stars and sea. I will dissect the beloveds body in metaphor.

The old story is true:Women have to be less emotional than men.

The fictive is an emormous territory it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it begins and ends.

There is this assumption that much of what I write is about my life, and that simply is not true.

Every painting is always two paintings: The one you see, and the one you remember.