“I’ve just typed myself into a revolutionary fervor again. Every so often the fury at injustice rises up in me and makes me want to smash something or burn something, but nothing in my immediate environment belongs to me so I have to refrain.”

“My mother just wanted me to forget it. So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.”

“The odd thing about this form of communication is you're more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many… somethings. So, thanks.”

“I knew you wanted to tell me;
In your voice there was something wrong.
But if you would turn your face away from me,
You cannot tell me you're so strong.
Just let me ask of you one small thing.
As we have shared so many tears,
With fervor our dreams we planned a whole life long
Now are scattered on the wind…”

“I would like to fall in love again but my only hope is that love doesn't happen to me so often after this. I don't want to get so used to falling in love that i get curious to experience something more extreme - whatever that may be.”

“Might have been the moonlight,
Caught up in the sparkle in your eyes.
So wicked and I know I should go slow but it's not in me to wait.Cause I'm alive and I'm on fire.
Shot like a starburst into the sky.
And the fury of desire it burns so bright electrifies
You light me up, you take me higher.”

“I often make the mistake of thinking that something that is obvious to me is just as obvious to everyone else.”

“If I fall along the way, pick me up and dust me off; If I get too tired to make it, be my breath so I can walk; If I need some other love then, give me more than I can stand; When my smile gets old and faded, just wait around I'll smile again; It shouldn't be so complicated, just hold me and then, just hold me again”

“As for 'story' I never yet did enjoy a novel or play in which someone didn't tell me afterward that there was something wrong with the story, so that's going to be no drawback as far as I'm concerned. "Good Lord, why am I so bored"—"I know; it must be the plot developing harmoniously." So I often reply to myself, and there rises before me my special nightmare—that of the writer as craftsman, natty and deft.”

“Seeing him again after so long awakened something inside me. I was surprised to find myself feeling sad rather than joyful, as I would have imagined.”