It's similar to the way you feel cuddling an infant or a kitten, when you want to squeeze it so hard you'd kill it.

It seems to me that my lack of faith is not, as I once thought, a triumph of the rational mind, but rather a failure of the imagination - an inability to tolerate mistery.

Somewhere between sanity and madness lays a fine line, for some it is a tightrope walked daily, a fight for balance to be won or lost. That fight is lost one of two ways. Some simply lose their balance and fall, others are pushed.

When you live alone, your furnishings, your possessions, are always confronting you with the thinness of your existence.

I'm a child in that respect: able to live, physically speaking, on a crumb of anticipation for weeks at a time, but always in danger of crushing the waited-for event with the freight of my excessive hope.

It's hard to resist the magical thinking that the work habits of great writers are the key to their greatness.

...what is romance, but a mutual pact of delusion? When the pact ends , there's nothing left.