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

The only education in grief that any of us ever gets is a crash course.

The flaw is the thing we love.

The Hours is in fact a lovely triumph. Cunningham honors both Mrs. Dalloway and its creator with unerring sensitivity, thanks to his modesty of intention and his sovereignly affecting prose.... With his elliptical evocation of Mrs. Dalloway, he has managed to pay great but quiet tribute -- reminding us of the gorgeous, ferocious beauty of what endures.

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

Grief doesn't necessarily make you noble. Sometimes it just makes you crazy, or primitive with fear.

My idea of a productive day, as both a child and an adult, was reading for hours and staring out the window.