When I was a ten-year-old book worm and used to kiss the dust jacket pictures of authors as if they were icons, it used to amaze me that these remote people could provoke me to love.

There is nothing fiercer than a failed artist. The energy remains, but, having no outlet, it implodes in a great black fart of rage which smokes up all the inner windows of the soul.

Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark places where it leads.

I have accepted fear as a part of life -- specifically the fear of change. . . . I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back!

Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.