Happiness is the lucky pane of glass you carry in your head. It takes all your cunning just to hang on to it, and once it's smashed you have to move into a different sort of life.

It's hard work being a person, you have to do it every single day.

I don't think I would have been a writer if I hadn't been a mother. I wanted to construct something that contained some of these feelings that I had, some of these discoveries or revelations.

Why should men be allowed to strut under the privilege of their life adventures, wearing them like a breast full of medals, while women went all gray and silent beneath the weight of theirs?

A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction.

Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.

I'm concerned about the unknowability of other people.