It's taken years for me to understand that dying doesn't end the story; it transforms it. Edits, rewrites, the blur, aand epiphany of one-way dialogue. Most of us wander in and out of one another's lives until not death, but distance, does us part-- time and space and heart's weariness are the blander executioners or human connection.

Like a starfish, the heart endures its amputation.

The truth, or success, of any writer's story lies partly in its specificity and its emotional honesty.

If writers possess a common temperament, it's that they tend to be shy egomaniacs; publicity is the spotlight they suffer for the recognition they crave.

It's and old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died and so we shared that, too.

The flaw is the thing we love.

the territory of grief ... is both cruel and commonplace.