I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.