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I realize that the wish to write in a new language derives from a kind of desperation.

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

If you know somebody is going to be awfully annoyed by something you write, that's obviously very satisfying, and if they howl with rage or cry, that's honey.

I'm not an angry person. When I write, the lawyer in me tries to make it as easy to read as possible.

People only say I'm angry because I'm black and I'm a woman. But all sorts of people write with strong feeling, the way I do.

When language fails, violence becomes a language; I never had that feeling.

Writing is a solitary profession; you are really alone when you write. Then the emotions become well shaped and distinct. But their transition into words must be done deliberately and with rigid artistry.

Writing is frustration - it's daily frustration, not to mention humiliation. It's just like baseball: you fail two-thirds of the time.

I mean, I have moments of huge frustration because of my inability to express myself linguistically as clearly as I would like to.