I Write A Lot In My Head.

It Is True That I Am A Writer, And I Was Married To A Composer, And I Have Lived In A Small Village In New England, But My Children Are Not Named Heracles And Persephone, And My Daughter Doesn't Disappear Underground Every Six Months And Emerge In The Spring.

The Space Between The Idea Of Something And Its Reality Is Always Wide And Deep And Dark. The Longer They Are Kept Apart—idea Of Thing, Reality Of Thing—the Wider The Width, The Deeper The Depth, The Thicker And Darker The Darkness.

The Strange Thing About My Life Is That I Came To America At About The Time When Racial Attitudes Were Changing. This Was A Big Help To Me. Also, The People Who Were Most Cruel To Me When I First Came To America Were Black Americans. They Made Absolute Fun Of The Way I Talked, The Way I Dressed. I Couldn't Dance. The People Who Were Most Kind And Loving To Me Were White People. So What Can One Make Of That? Perhaps It Was A Coincidence That All The People Who Found Me Strange Were Black And All The People Who Didn't Were White.

I Am Not Aware Of Anything Below My Neck. I Live Completely In My Head.

I Think Life Is Difficult And That's That. I Am Not At All - Absolutely Not At All - Interested In The Pursuit Of Happiness. I Am Not Interested In The Pursuit Of Positivity. I Am Interested In Pursuing A Truth, And The Truth Often Seems To Be Not Happiness But Its Opposite.