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.
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.
The silence is perfect, and yet a torment.
The scolding voice is her own, so abrasive and quick, yet so powerless to move her.
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.