Because if she let go of her grief even for a minute it would only hit her harder when she bumped into it again.

He was evidently the sort of person who posed questions that were traps for you to fall into.

Anecdotes don't make good stories. Generally I dig down underneath them so far that the story that finally comes out is not what people thought their anecdotes were about.

There was a danger whenever I was on home ground. It was the danger of seeing my life through other eyes than my own. Seeing it as an ever-increasing roll of words like barbed wire, intricate, bewildering, uncomforting—set against the rich productions, the food, flowers, and knitted garments, of other women’s domesticity. It became harder to say that it was worth the trouble.

Hatred is always a sin, my mother told me. Remember that. One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk. I was struck by that and meant to try it, but knew I shouldn’t waste the milk.

Why is it a surprise to find that people other than ourselves are able to tell lies?

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