Birth, life, and death― each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.

I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge - even wisdom. Like art.

I write the way women have babies. You don't know it's going to be like that. If you did, there's no way you would go through with it.

What difference do it make if the thing you scared of is real or not?

I don't think a female running a house is a problem, a broken family. It's perceived as one because of the notion that a head is a man.

Don't ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn't fall in love, I rose in it.

There, in the center of that silence was not eternity but the death of time and a loneliness so profound the word itself had no meaning. For loneliness assumed the absence of other people, and the solitude she found in that desperate terrain had never admitted the possibility of other people. She wept then. Tears for the deaths of the littlest things: the castaway shoes of children; broken stems of marsh grass battered and drowned by the sea; prom photographs of dead women she never knew; wedding rings in pawnshop windows; the tiny bodies of Cornish hens in a nest of rice.