"It is a delicious thing to write,
to be no longer yourself
but to move in an entire universe of your own creating.
Today, for instance,
as man and woman, both lover and mistress,
I rode in a forest on an autumn afternoon under the yellow leaves,
and I was also the horses,
the leaves, the wind,
the words my people uttered,
even the red sun that made them almost close
their love-drowned eyes."