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.

Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.

I'd confused need with love and love with sacrifice.

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

What do you do when the story changes in midlife? When a tale you have told yourself turns out to be a little untrue, just enough to throw the world off-kilter? It’s like leaving the train at the wrong stop: You are still you, but in a new place, there by accident or grace, and you will need your wits about you to proceed.

The real hell of this," he told her, "is that you're going to get through it.

That she was irreplaceable became a bittersweet loyalty: Her death was what I had now instead of her.