She had storms all her life, but she died peacefully.

In the history of art there are periods when bread seems so beautiful that it nearly gets into museums.

History looks queer when you're standing close to it, watching where it is coming from and how it's being made.

She felt about a love set as a painter does about his masterpiece; each ace serve was a form of brushwork to her, and her fantastically accurate shot-placing was certainly a study in composition.

The older women were Sunbeams and I guess we were Cherubs or Lambs but our mothers were Nightingales.

I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks.