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.

Not telling is just as interesting as telling I have found. Why speech, that short verbal journey from inside to outside can be excrutiating under certain circumstances is fascinating.

Many writers over the centuries simply do not have the reputations they deserve because they were female, and that is an act of suppression.

I think because mothers usually are the people who take care of us when we're little, and when we're little those mothers are omnipotent, perhaps men even more than women don't like to think about that dependency. That dependency is horror.

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

There's a phenomenology of being sick, one that depends on temperament, personal history, and the culture which we live in.

There is no future without a past, because what is to be cannot be imagined except as a form of repetition.