My mother was wonderfully out about her dementia. She would sort of - she would say to me, I came out to the window cleaner about having dementia. You know, I love the way that verb for coming out of the closet has now become so socially useful for all sorts of situations, like when you need to explain to the window cleaner that you don't know if you paid him or not.

I remember manners, that's when people are scared to make other persons mad.

I'm finding that success is way more time-consuming than failure ever was.

You cannot predict literary success; the only way you can possibly aim for it is to do your thing and do it well.

Ma's still nodding. "You're the one who matters, though. Just you." I shake my head till it's wobbling because there's no just me.

Change for your own sake, if you must, not for what you imagine another will ask of you.

She leaped into space, high, higher than she'd ever been in her life. She came down with a clean snap, and the crowd scattered like birds from the swing of her feet.