She learned the intricacy of loneliness: the horror of color, the roar of soundlessness and the menace of familiar objects lying still.

It was my father who could do no wrong. So I didn't think of it as, oh, look, my father's a violent man.

If happiness is anticipation with certainty, we were happy.

Deep, deep trouble. Can't rival the dead for love. Lose every time.

Isolation, you know, carries the seeds of its own destruction because as times change, other things seep in.

We're all surrounded by what I call faux language, fake language of commerce, of news media.

Everything depends on knowing how much,” she said, and “Good is knowing when to stop.