Ours is a society in which secrets of private life that, formerly, you would have given nearly anything to conceal, you now clamor to get on a television show to reveal.

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick.

In contrast to the written account-which, depending on its complexity of thought, reference, and vocabulary, is pitched at a larger or smaller readership-a photograph has only one language and is destined potentially for all.

The writer is either a practicing recluse or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one--or both. Usually both.

Time exists in order that everything doesn’t happen all at once…and space exists so that it doesn’t all happen to you.

Self-exposure is commendable in art only when it is of a quality and complexity that allows other people to learn about themselves from it.

War tears, rends. War rips open, eviscerates. War scorches. War dismembers. War ruins.