My father was an engineer - he wasn't literary, not a writer or a journalist, but he was one of the world's great readers. Every two weeks, he'd take me to our local branch library and pull books off the shelf for me, stacking them up in my arms - 'Have you read this? And this? And this?"

No matter where I was, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.

What was the point in such loneliness among people. At least if you were by yourself, you had a good reason to be lonely.

When you started thinking it was easy, you were forgetting what it cost.

How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.

Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow.

The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.