But if there was embellishment, it only had to do with the facts.
Now that I knew fear, I also knew it was not permanent. As powerful as it was, its grip on me would loosen. It would pass.
I tried out the unfamiliar syllables. They fit. They cracked in my ears like a fist through ice.
What is this life but the sound of an appalling love.
The universe is transformation.
Power travels in the bloodlines, handed out before birth.
The only time I see the truth is when I cross my eyes.
I don’t pray. When I was young, I vowed I never would be caught begging God. If I want something I get it for myself. I go to church only to show the old hens they don’t get me down.
I prefer to have some beliefs that don’t make logical sense.
Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.
I am part of what she thinks is her illness, a symptom of which she thinks she has been cured. She, on the other hand, is what I was looking for.
Freedom, I found is not only in the running but in the heart, the mind, the hands.
Her clothes were filled with safety pins and hidden tears.
I did not choose solitude. Who would? It came on me like a kind of vocation, demanding an effort that married women can’t picture.
All through my life I never did believe in human measurement. Numbers, time, inches, feet. All are just ploys for cutting nature down to size. I know the grand scheme of the world is beyond our brains to fathom, so I don’t try, just let it in.
I feel myself becoming less a person than a place, inhabited, a foreign land.
You know, some people fall right through the hole in their lives. Its invisible, but they come to it after time, never knowing where.
Of course, English is a very powerful language, a colonizer’s language and a gift to a writer. English has destroyed and sucked up the languages of other cultures – its cruelty is its vitality.
I have always kept notebooks and I go back to them over and over. They are my compost pile of ideas.
I knew each person’s delusion, the places their records had scratched, where the sounds repeated.