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

It must have meant something, though, that at this turn of my life I grabbed up a book. Because it was in books that I would find, for the next few years, my lovers. They were men, not boys. They were self-possessed and sardonic, with a ferocious streak in them, reserves of gloom.

I have never kept diaries. I just remember a lot and am more self-centered than most people.

Every year, when you're a child, you become a different person.

Never underestimate the meanness in people's souls... Even when they're being kind... especially when they're being kind.

Pots can show malice, the patterns of linoleum can leer up at you, treachery is the other side of dailiness.

I read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same.