Light like this does not exist, but we wish it did. We wish the sun could make us young and beautiful, we wish our clothes could glisten and ripple against our skins, most of all, we wish that everyone we knew could be brightened simply by our looking at them, as are the maid with the letter and the soldier with the hat.

If I could have any job in the world I'd be a professional Cinderella.

Mental illness seems to be a communication problem between interpreters one and two.

A successful suicide demands good organization and a cool head, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind.

What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?

An observer can't tell if a person is silent and still because inner life has stalled or because inner life is transfixingly busy.

It is easy to slip into a parallel universe. There are so many of them: worlds of the insane, the criminal, the crippled, the dying, perhaps of the dead as well. These worlds exist alongside this world and resemble it, but are not in it.