When you're young, you always feel that life hasn't yet begun—that "life" is always scheduled to begin next week, next month, next year, after the holidays—whenever. But then suddenly you're old and the scheduled life didn't arrive. You find yourself asking, 'Well then, exactly what was it I was having—that interlude—the scrambly madness—all that time I had before?

We are changed souls; we don't look at things the same way anymore. For there was a time when we expected the worst. But then the worst happened, did it not? And so we will never be surprised again.

I think writing would have happened to me anyway, somehow. Differently, but it still would have happened.

Later, I would learn that coincidences are the most planned things in the world. Later, I would learn that every single moment is a coincidence.

If you're not a tree hugger, then you're a what, a tree hater?

Beyond a certain age, sincerity ceases to feel pornographic.

Is there anything in the world more annoyingly creepy than an unspoken dress code?