My mother was my first jealous lover.
Belief sometimes precedes understanding; faith sometimes precedes scientific evidence.
I made the mistake of thinking that if you add up the past, you sum up the future; I forgot how frequently life astonishes us.
Sometimes I think that just not thinking of oneself is a form of prayer. . .
To sleep is an act of faith.
Insanity is a lack of proportion.
To surrender one's vulnerable body to water has always seemed to me a limpid act of will that has no coutnerpart or equal, unless it is sex.
[On Werner Erhard, founder of est:] If I wanted a new belief system, I'd choose to believe in God - He's been in business longer than Werner, and He has better music.
Rome is all things high and low. It is like God, it accommodates so much.
I love cloisters, which are the architectural equivalent of a theological concept: perfect freedom within set boundaries.
How do you think it would feel to be obliged to ask for a seat-belt extender on an airplane? For the unfashionably bulgy, life is a series of small humiliations.
To live exhilaratingly in and for the moment is deadly serious work, fun of the most exhausting sort
Autobiography is a preemptive strike against biographers.
The best work is a fusion of love and praise.
Illness is regarded as a crime, and crime is regarded as illness.
I don't think I know a single woman who knows what she looks like.
the gardens of our childhood are all beautiful.
To offer the complexities of life as an excuse for not addressing oneself to the simpler, more manageable (trivial) aspects of daily existence is a perversity often indulged in by artists, husbands, intellectuals -- and critics of the Women's Movement.
Weather creates character.
If there is one lesson Rome teaches, it is that matter is good; in Rome the holy and the homely rise and converge.
One can be tired of Rome after three weeks and feel one has exhausted it; after three months one feels that one has not even scratched the surface of Rome; and after six months one wishes never to leave it.
The dream police will not let me have sexual fantasies.
In the face of evil, detachment is a dubious virtue.
Every house we have lived in, every building to which our hands have lent their work, belongs to us by virtue of love or of regret.
It's the perpetually unfinished quality of housework that makes it oppressive - it never ends, like bad psychoanalysis, or a dream interrupted. It is paradoxically true that it is exactly this daily re-creation of the world that lends housekeeping its nobility and romance.
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