She saw herself riding in the passenger seat, Sam behind the wheel. Like two of those little peg people in a toy car. Husband peg, wife peg, side by side. Facing the road and not looking at each other; for why would they need to, really, having gone beyond the visible surface long ago. No hope of admiring gazes anymore, no chance of unremitting adoration. Nothing left to show but their plain, true, homely, interior selves, which were actually much richer anyhow.

They were like people who run to meet, holding out their arms, but their aim is wrong; they pass each other and keep running.

But if you never did anything you couldn't undo you'd end up doing nothing at all.

I think I was born with the impression that what happened in books was much more reasonable, and interesting, and real, in some ways, than what happened in life.

It is not how much you love someone, but who you are when you are with him.

People always talked about a mother's uncanny ability to read her children, but that was nothing compared to how children could read their mothers.

It's true that writing is a solitary occupation, but you would be surprised at how much companionship a group of imaginary characters can offer once you get to know them.