She was forever tilted sideways by the notion that pain was inevitable, chance was cruel, and all human ingenuity should go towards the making of a good cup of tea.

We shape ourselves by our imaginative reach.

That was the sort of everyday love I had to learn to contend with: if you grow up with it, it's hard to think you'll ever match it. I used to think it was difficult for children of folks who really loved each other, hard to get out from under that skin because sometimes it's just so comfortable you don't want to have to develop your own.

Whatever you say, say nothing.

I want the younger writer to know that she or he is meaningful, that what they have to say is powerful in this world. But they can't come indoors, they can't close the curtains, they can't, like, lock themselves away from the world and say nothing.

People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self.

We have to listen to other people's stories. That's the thing. And that's the only way that we eventually get to know ourselves.