She [my mother] gave me permission to wonder, to dawdle, to daydream.

It's a dismally lonely business, writing.

All writers, musicians, artists, choreographers/dancers, etc., work with the stuff of their experiences. It's the translation of it, the conversion of it, the shaping of it that makes for the drama.

The dream is real, my friends. The failure to make it work is the unreality.

Old folks are the nation.

We have not been scuffling in this waste - howling wilderness for the right to be stupid. All this waste.

(M)aybe we too busy being flowers or fairies or strawberries instead of something honest and worthy of respect . . . you know . . . like being people.