This earth is my sister; I love her daily grace, her silent daring, and how loved I am. How we admire this strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered, all that we know: We are stunned by this beauty, and I do not forget: what she is to me, what I am to her.

One can find traces of every life in each life.

In one sense I feel that my book is a one-woman argument against determinism.

We keep secrets from ourselves that all along we know.

War starts in the mind, not in the body.

What always seems miraculous is when aesthetic necessities yield an insight which otherwise I would have missed.

A story is told as much by silence as by speech.