I think there is no way to write about being alone. To write is to tell something to somebody to communicate to others. . . . Solitude is noncommunication, the absence of others, the presence of a self sufficient to itself.

It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

I think hard times are coming. We will need writers who can remember freedom. Poets, visionaries, the realists of a larger reality.

Her work, I really think her work is finding what her real work is and doing it, her work, her own work, her being human, her being in the world.

And I needed a rock. Something to hold onto, to stand on. Something solid. Because everything was going soft, turning into mush, into marsh, into fog. Fog closing in on all sides. I didn't know where I was at all.

Truth is a matter of the imagination.

I have no control over my writing. I have lots of good intentions, but no control. There's a story that wants to be told.