Goodbye, Room." I wave up at Skylight. "Say goodbye," I tell Ma. "Goodbye, Room." Ma says it but on mute. I look back one more time. It's like a crater, a hole where something happened. Then we go out the door.

I'm really not one of these procrastinators who cleans the house in order to put off writing, but life gets in the way.

I got in the habit of giving away a book as soon as I've finished it because I lived in a housing co-op at Cambridge and had no space to keep books.

I always wince a little bit when I send me to each of my new books. I wince at submitting myself to my father's judgment. But, of course, he's such a fond father that he always writes back, saying it's the greatest thing ever written.

Maybe I’m a human, but I’m a me-and-Ma as well.

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

Everybody's damaged by something.