She'd abandoned the animal she loved as she herself had been abandoned repeatedly in the past by people who had claimed to love her.

You're never ready for what you have to do. You just do it. That makes you ready.

There is no past. Past is present when you carry it with you.

Isolated, she managed somehow to feel free—albeit with a freedom that made her want to smash a hole in the very center of the universe.

The neurologist had dismissed her case after a single visit, handing out an easy nostrum by telling her father that if she continued to write poetry, she would be all right.

It is so much more threatening to have something out of hand than to believe that at any moment I can stop (I started to say "This foolishness") any time I need to.

Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.

She was mined for the childrenin her, one daughter, then another, a short seam, quick to clay, and not a single son to save them.

If you have to shout to prove your point, you're probably wrong.

Counting is the religion of this generation it is its hope and its salvation.

I am in a mixed race marriage myself, and I have a mixed race son....The racial perception interest is probably always going to be there to some extent.

You're always dealing with emotions as an actor.

Don't be so concerned with your rights that you forget your manners.

"You are fairly smart," I said after a while. "You are fairly good at compliments," he answered.

I thank you for nothing, because I understand nothing.

Every human being is a raindrop. And when enough of the raindrops become clear and coherent they then become the power of the storm.