What they never tell you about grief is that missing someone is the simple part.

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.

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

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

Like a starfish, the heart endures its amputation.

Near the end I asked him one night in the hospital corridor what he thought was happening, and he said, "Tell her everything you haven't said," and I smiled with relief. "There's nothing," I said. "I've already told her everything.