“Some people write letters, in the library.”

“More and more I feel like a letter—deposited here, collected there. But a letter addressed to no one.”

“But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.”

“The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.”

“The heart with letters on it shining like a light bulb through the trim hole painted in the chest, art history.”

“Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you’re on your own. ­Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”

“In front of us, to the right, is the store where we order dresses. Some people call them habits, a good word for them. Habits are hard to break. ”