To me, we are in the midst of such broad-scale destruction, both psychically and physically, that the only thing that can threaten the grip, loosen the hold, of economism, I believe, is a discussion of the sacred born out of our regard and compassion and intelligence for the earth and the creatures on the earth.

As a writer, I have learned that each time I pick up my pencil I betray someone.

The pain that we feel when we are making love with someone is that we know it will end. It's that paradoxical response of joy and suffering.

I can't imagine a secular life, a spiritual life, an intellectual life, a physical life. I mean, we would be completely wrought with schizophrenia, wouldn't we?

I think we are living a life without specificity, and then our lives become abstractions.

Sometimes you have to disclaim your country and inhabit another before you can return to your own.

The sin we commit against each other as women is lack of support. We hurt. We hurt each other. We hide. We project. We become mute or duplicitous, and we fester like boiling water until one day we erupt like a geyser. Do we forget we unravel in grief?