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

I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.

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

Hope in the beginning feels like such a violation of the loss, and yet without it we couldn't survive.

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.

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

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.