Growing up female in America. What a liability! You grew up with your ears full of cosmetic ads, love songs, advice columns, whoreoscopes, Hollywood gossip, and moral dilemmas on the level of TV soap operas. What litanies the advertisers of the good life chanted at you! What curious catechisms!

I am thinking of the onion again. . . . Not self-righteous like the proletarian potato, nor a siren like the apple. No show-off like the banana. But a modest, self-effacing vegetable, questioning, introspective, peeling itself away, or merely radiating halos like ripples.

The hardest part is believing in yourself at the notebook stage. It is like believing in dreams in the morning.

I have forgotten my rave reviews and memorized my vicious ones - like most writers.

A new dog never replaces an old dog, it merely expands the heart.

Isn't it our job to be appalled by our parents? Isn't it every generation's duty to be dismayed by the previous generation? And to assert that we are different - only to discover later that we are distressingly the same?

I have lived my life according to this principle: If I'm afraid of it, then I must do it.