Write the book you want to read, the one you cannot find.

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.

These are frightening times...when she feels herself annointed by loneliness.

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

He dares not concern himself with the future for fear of disturbing the present.

Eventually, everything gets stuck between a pair of parentheses or buried in the bottom of a trunk.

And yet, within her anxiety, secured there like a gemstone, she carries the cool and curious power of occasionally being able to see the world vividly. Clarity bursts upon her a spray of little stars. She understands this, and thinks of it as one of the tricks of consciousness; there is something almost luxurious about it.. The narrative maze opens and permits her to pass through. She may be crowded out of her own life - she knows this for a fact and has always know it - but she possesses, as a compensatory gift, the startling ability to draft alternative versions.