There is no reason we should expect young children to enter the nocturnal darkness of sleep and dreams without help.

Women really are not supposed to be imaginative. That creativity of this kind is supposed to belong to men. You know, because women make babies. I find the double standards shocking.

Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer, and each dreamer has his own folds to open and knots to untie.

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

I remember thinking how easy it is to speak in clichés, to steal a line from pulp fiction and let it fall. We can only hover around the inexpressible with our words anyway, and there is comfort in saying what we have heard before.

Our memory fragments don't have any coherence until they're imagined in words. Time is a property of language, of syntax, and tense.

That is the strangeness of language: it crosses the boundaries of the body, is at once inside and outside, and it sometimes happens that we don't notice the threshold has been crossed.