What I Really Want To

It Is Sad That Unless You Are Born A God, Your Life,from Its Very Beginning, Is A Mystery To You.

It Is True That I Am A Writer, And I Was Married To A Composer, And I Have Lived In A Small Village In New England, But My Children Are Not Named Heracles And Persephone, And My Daughter Doesn't Disappear Underground Every Six Months And Emerge In The Spring.

The Space Between The Idea Of Something And Its Reality Is Always Wide And Deep And Dark. The Longer They Are Kept Apart—idea Of Thing, Reality Of Thing—the Wider The Width, The Deeper The Depth, The Thicker And Darker The Darkness.

A Tourist Is An Ugly Human Being.

Something Settiled Inside Me, Something Heavy And Hard. It Stayed There, And I Could Not Think Of One Thing To Make It Go Away. I Thought, So This Must Be Living, This Must Be The Beginning Of The Time People Later Refer To As 'years Ago, When I Was Young'.