Did you ever, in that wonderland wilderness of adolesence [sic] ever, quite unexpectedly, see something, a dusk sky, a wild bird, a landscape, so exquisite terror touched you at the bone? And you are afraid, terribly afraid the smallest movement, a leaf, say, turning in the wind, will shatter all? That is, I think, the way love is, or should be: one lives in beautiful terror.

But, my dear, so few things are fulfilled: what are most lives but a series of incompleted episodes? 'We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task...' It is wanting to know the end that makes us believe in God, or witchcraft, believe, at least, in something.

Reading dreams. That's what started her walking down the road. Every day she'd walk a little further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on.

We all, sometimes, leave each other there under the skies, and we never understand why.

Never demean yourself by talking back to a critic, never. Write those letters to the editor in your head, but don't put them on paper.

I think to be a good teacher you need an enormous amount of patience and I'm a very impatient person.

Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.