I don't read reviews and I don't know what to do with opinions, so I just lose them. They take up space, they become a process of manufacturing a persona, which I want to avoid.

Words bounce. Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.

One of the principle qualities of pain is that it demands an explanation.

To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.

The words we read and words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbola never perfectly match. Eros is in between.

You remember too much," my mother said to me recently. "Why hold onto all that?" And I said, "where can I put it down?

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

Myths are stories about people who become too big for their lives temporarily, so that they crash into other lives or brush against gods. In crisis their souls are visible.

Under the seams runs the pain.

When I desire you a part of me is gone.

If your way of life is writing, then everything that happens becomes a sentence.

Blessed is the society that has oldies.

Once you start being a muse, you cannot stop being a muse.

When you move toward that which is most fulfilling and life-enhancing, healing follows regardless of what your health is like in that moment.

And that's an even greater love: to love somebody when he's a little...worn at the edges. —Teddy Bear

You said, 'I love you.' Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear?

If the reviews hurt they're probably right on some level.

Sometimes limbo is a tolerable place to be stuck.

My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd. "This Land of Saints," and then as the applause died out, "Of plaster Saints;" his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.

The Remedy often proves worse than the Disease.