Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.

Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I love it.

I am rooted, but I flow.

People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.

Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.

I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.

Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.