I have a little tiny Emily Dickinson so big that I carry in my pocket everywhere. And you just read three poems of Emily. She is so brave. She is so strong. She is such a sexy, passionate, little woman. I feel better.
As a kid, all I thought about was death. But you can’t tell your parents that.
I wanted my wild things to be frightening.
Make it dangerous or it’s not worth doing.
Dreams raise the emotional level of what I’m doing at the moment.
I feel it in me like a woman having a baby, all that life churning inside me. I feel it every day; it moves, stretches, yawns. It’s getting ready to be born. It knows exactly what it is.
If you’re making it up, make it up good. And then believe in what you made up.
I mean, being a child was being a child, was being a creature without power, without pocket money, without escape routes of any kind. So I didn’t want to be a child.
Because love is so enormous, the only thing you can think of doing is swallowing the person that you love entirely.
When you hide another story in a story, that’s the story I am telling the children.
In plain terms, a child is a complicated creature who can drive you crazy. There’s a cruelty to childhood, there’s an anger.
I’m totally crazy, I know that.
We’ve educated children to think spontaneity is inappropriate.
I never can satisfy some need in me to achieve something of incredible hight. For my sake. It puzzles me deeply. And it sours my life. So there is a permanent dissatisfaction.
Truthfullness to life-both fantasy life and factual life-is the basis of all great art.
We’re animals. We’re violent.
You can’t get rid of evil. We can’t, and I feel that so intensely.
William Blake really is important, my cornerstone. Nobody ever told me before he did that childhood was such a damned serious business.
I don’t want to lose hope.
And it’s one of the sexiest things you will ever read of how slow you should take the peach. Don’t rush it.