Dinginess is death to a writer. Filth, discomfort, hunger, cold, trauma and drama, don't matter a bit.

“I had lines inside me-a string of guiding lights. I had language.”

“There is no sense in forgetting and every sense in dreaming.”

“He did not say so, but the words behind the words told me that he would rather …”

“I can't be a priest because although my heart is as loud as hers I can pretend …”