Every now and then she looked around for tangible evidence of his having ever been there. Where were the butterflies? the blueberries? the whistling reed? She could find nothing, for he had left nothing but his stunning absence.

I know it's trash: just another story made up to scare wicked females and correct unruly children. But it's all I have. I know I need something else. Something better. Like a story that shows how brazen women can take a good man down. I can hum to that.

What I'm doing ain't about hating White people. It's about loving us.

The best art is political and you ought to be able to make it unquestionably political and irrevocably beautiful at the same time.

Evil is so seductive. It needs to grind you up and make you its slave.

My theory is that the world is a difficult place to live in and distraction is the name of the game.

I had only one desire: to dismember it. To see of what it was made, to discover the dearness, to find the beauty, the desirability that had escaped me, but apparently only me.