Tragedy is a hell of a teacher. It's much too strict, but it's a hell of a teacher.

We all think that we are uniquely complex, that no one can see what we are thinking - yet we also believe that we have the rare ability to read others. This fascinates me at the moment.

We're called New Jersey but we're actually the suburbs of New York.

Only bad writers think they're good.

No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.

Hope can be the most wonderful thing in the world or it can crush your heart like an eggshell.

I try to stress to my children that buying something never leads to true happiness.