They were all in their early thirties. An age at which it is sometimes hard to admit that what you are living is your life.

That's something I think is growing on me as I get older: happy endings.

She would live now, not read.

It's as if tendencies that seem most deeply rooted in our minds, most private and singular, have come in as spores on the prevailing wind, looking for any likely place to land, any welcome.

In twenty years I've never had a day when I didn't have to think about someone else's needs. And this means the writing has to be fitted around it.

Now that I think of it, she looked splendid. I wish I had met her somewhere else. I wish I had appreciated her as she deserved. I wish that everything had gone differently.

Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.