I'm Sixty-two, And It's Ecological Sense To

Often Writing Is Like A Struggle To Get Back To A Kind Of Belated, Quite Impure Virginity.

I Feel Sorry For The Man Who Marries You... Because Everyone Thinks You're Sweet And You're Not.

I Have The Sense That If I Push Too Hard Or Too Far Into Memory I’ll Come Apart.

You Really Can’t Write Unless You Read. You Have To Know What The Game Is All About.

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.