It almost seemed as if there must be some random and of course unfair thrift in the emotional housekeeping of the world, if the great happiness--however temporary, however flimsy--of one person could come out of the great unhappiness of another.

My head was a magpie's nest lined with such bright scraps of information.

One stroke of lightning does not have to lead anywhere, but to the next stroke of lightning.

Children of course are monstrously conventional, repelled at once by whatever is off-center, out of whack, unmanageable. And being an only child I had been coddled a good deal (also scolded). I was awkward, precocious, timid, full of my private rituals and aversions.

Memory is the way we keep telling ourselves our stories - and telling other people a somewhat different version of our stories.

You cannot let your parents anywhere near your real humiliations.

The conversation of kisses. Subtle, engrossing, fearless, transforming.