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

The belief that life was hard and often its worst battles were fought in private, that it was possible to walk through fear and come out scorched but still breathing.

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.

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.

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

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