I just finished Colson Whitehead's "The Underground Railroad," which I think is a work of genius.

At midnight the wind in the tress can sound like the ocean. The moonlight can make a road appear as endless as the sea.

He'd thought he was lost, but now he recognized that eternity was around him, like salt from a shaker or stars in the sky.

I saw the end of his life right there in that single moment. His pride, his decency, his secrets, his death.

Just because something is unspoken doesn't mean that it disappears.

She knows where she's going, and what she has to do. She could, after all, find her way to Route 95 South blindfolded. She could do it in the dark, in fair weather or foul; she can do it even when it seems she will run out of gas. It doesn't matter what people tell you. It doesn't matter what they might say. Sometimes you have to leave home. Sometimes, running away means you're headed in the exact right direction.

Mothers always find ways to fit in the work - but then when you're working, you feel that you should be spending time with your children and then when you're with your children, you're thinking about working.