And in this moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came.

She took off her dark glasses and squinted at me. It was as though her eyes were shattered prisms, the dots of blue and gray and green like broken bits of sparkle.

There's lots of things you don't know. All kinds of strange things . . . mostly they happened before we were born: that makes them seem to me so much more real.

I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.

When I am writing, I try to do it five hours a day but I spend about two of those just fooling around.

Oh Jesus God we did belong to each other. He was mine.

So the days, the last days, blow about in a memory, hazy autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I've lived