I've always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication, a layer of protection from all the sharp thoughts in your head.

I often don't say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you'd never guess from looking at me.

He was one of those guys who'd pronounce I'm a hugger as he came at you, neglecting to ask if the feeling was mutual.

Worries find you easily enough without inviting them.

I assumed everything bad in the world could happen, because everything bad in the world already did happen.

Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you're really doing it to them.

The question I've asked more often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I supposed these questions storm cloud over every marriage: What are you thinking how are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?