“...don't read anything except what destroys the insulation between yourself and your experience...”

“Leave the dishes.Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigeratorand an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.Don't even sew on a button.Let the wind have its way, then the earththat invades as dust and then the deadfoaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzlesor the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worrywho uses whose toothbrush or if anythingmatches, at all.Except one word to another. Or a thought.Pursue the authentic-decide firstwhat is authentic,then go after it with all your heart.Your heart, that placeyou don't even think of cleaning out.That closet stuffed with savage mementos.Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teethor worry if we're all eating cereal for dinneragain. Don't answer the telephone, ever,or weep over anything at all that breaks.Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartonsin the refrigerator. Accept new forms of lifeand talk to the deadwho drift in though the screened windows, who collectpatiently on the tops of food jars and books.Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anythingexcept what destroysthe insulation between yourself and your experienceor what pulls down or what strikes at or what shattersthis ruse you call necessity.”

“It didn't occur to me that my books would be widely read at all, and that enabled me to write anything I wanted to. And even once I realized that they were being read, I still wrote as if I were writing in secret. That's how one has to write anyway--in secret.”

“ We have these earthly bodies. We don't know what they want. Half the time, we pretend they are under our mental thumb, but that is the illusion of the healthy and the protected. Of sedate lovers. For the body has emotions it conceives and carries through without concern for anyone or anything else. Love is one of those, I guess. Going back to something very old knit into the brain as we were growing. Hopeless. Scorching. Ordinary. ”

“Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they'll leave you, sure. There's no return to what was and no way back. There's just emptiness all around, and you in it, like singing up from the bottom of a well, like nothing else, until you harm yourself, until you are a mad dog biting yourself for sympathy. Because there is no relenting.”

“To sew is to pray. Men don't understand this. They see the whole but they don't see the stitches. They don't see the speech of the creator in the work of the needle. We mend. We women turn things inside out and set things right. We salvage what we can of human garments and piece the rest into blankets. Sometimes our stitches stutter and slow. Only a woman's eyes can tell. Other times, the tension in the stitches might be too tight because of tears, but only we know what emotion went into the making. Only women can hear the prayer.”

“What happens when you let an unsatisfactory present go on long enough? It becomes your entire history.”