My apartment is basically a couch, an armchair, and about four thousand books.

I never understood why Clark Kent was so hell bent on keeping Lois Lane in the dark.

Think for a minute, darling: in fairy tales it's always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window.

It was silly, wasn't it? But the singing made it not silly.

I have a sort of Christmas-morning sense of the library as a big box full of beautiful books.

We are walking down the street holding hands. There is a playground at the end of the block, and I run to the swings and I climb on and Henry takes the one next to me facing the opposite direction. And we swing higher and higher passing each other, sometimes in synch and sometimes streaming past each other so fast that it seems we are going to collide. And we laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost or dead or far away. Right now we are here and nothing can mar our perfection or steal the joy of this perfect moment.

I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room