You can examine the whole 19th century from the point of view of who would have maxed out their credit cards. Emma Bovary would have maxed hers out. No question. Mr. Scrooge would not have. He would have snipped his up.
We slept in what had once been the gymnasium.
Inside the peach, there is a stone.
Snowman wakes before dawn.
All observations of life are harsh, because life is. I lament that fact, but I cannot change it.
He considers me also a little fragile because artistic. I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.
Happy as a clam, is what my mother says for happy. I am happy as a clam: hard-shelled, firmly closed.
Every utopia – let’s just stick with the literary ones – faces the same problem: What do you do with the people who don’t fit in?
An eye for an eye only leads to more blindness.
If the national mental illness of the United States is megalomania, that of Canada is paranoid schizophrenia.
You refuse to own yourself, you permit others to do it for you.
She who pays the undertaker calls the tune.
I spent much of my childhood in northern Quebec, and often there was no radio, no television – there wasn’t a lot to entertain us. When it rained, I stayed inside reading, writing, drawing.
To take that risk, to offer life and remain alive, open yourself like this and become whole.
I could end this with a moral, as if this were a fable about animals, though no fables are really about animals.
He has been trying to sing Love into existence again And he has failed.
The threat to the planet is us. It’s actually not a threat to the planet – it’s a threat to us.
There is good and mediocre writing within every genre.
Genres aren’t closed boxes. Stuff flows back and forth across the borders all the time.
What you get is no longer what you see.