One Must Talk. That's How It Is.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

I Often Think Of The Image Only I Can See Now, And Of Which I’ve Never Spoken. It’s Always There, In The Same Silence, Amazing. It’s The Only Image Of Myself I Like, The Only One In Which I Recognize Myself, In Which I Delight

...as Long As Nothing Happens Between Them, The Memory Is Cursed With What Hasn't Happened.

Our Mothers Always Remain The Strangest, Craziest People We've Ever Met.

Get Rid Of Things Or You'll Spend Your Whole Life Tidying Up.