My mother had a very difficult childhood, having seen her own mother kill herself. So she didnt always know how to be the nurturing mother that we all expect we should have.

Seeing her this last time, I threw myself on her body. And she opened her eyes slowly. I was not scared. I knew she could see me and what she had finally done. So i shut her eyes with my fingers and told her with my heart: I cah see the truth, too. I am strong, too.

Now they seemed to be in a contest over who could irritate her more, and she sometimes had to remind herself that teenagers had souls

I began to look at all events and all things as relevant, an opportunity to take or avoid.

Only you pick that crab. Nobody else take it. I already know this. Everyone else want best quality. You thinking different.

Placing on writers the responsibility to represent a culture is an onerous burden.

My favorite anything is always relative to the context of present time, place and mood. When I finish a book and want to immediately find another by the same author and no other, that author is elevated to my favorite.