Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

Character is fate.

It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.

The day I went into physics class it was death.

I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.

There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.