I'm sure there are people who survive tragedy without humor, but I've never met any of them. Nor would I be particularly interested in writing about them if I did meet them.

The thing I believe in most in the world is my own fallibility, so I am willing to believe that I may be wrong too.

When I was 15, what I wanted in a boyfriend was just that confidence and swagger. I wanted someone who knew what he was doing, because I was just faking it. What I want for my daughter is the exact opposite.

I tell myself that after four children my belly is already so stretched and flabby that I have to do origami to get my pants buttoned. One more pregnancy and I'd be doomed to elastic waists for the rest of my life.

If a good mother is one who loves her child more than anyone else in the world, I am not a good mother. I am in fact a bad mother. I love my husband more than I love my children.

Whatever my intentions, whatever the truth of my claim, I had no business giving a lecture to a total stranger.

There is no fundamental truth and there's nothing to be connected to: I just believe that [LSD] makes you feel better.