She learned that an act intended to express love could have nothing to do with it. That her heart and her body were different things.

I would not send a first story anywhere. I would give myself time to write a number of stories.

He tries to peel the image from the sticky yellow backing, to show her the next time he sees her, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to detach cleanly from the past.

I wanted to pull away from the things that marked my parents as being different.

Gogol is unaccustomed to this sort of talk at mealtimes, to the indulgent ritual of the lingering meal, and the pleasant aftermath of bottles and crumbs and empty glasses that clutter the table.

A writer has to true to him or herself. Period. That’s it!

But she has gathered that Americans, in spite of their public declarations of affection, in spite of their miniskirts and bikinis, in spite of their hand-holding on the street and lying on top of each other on the Cambridge Common, prefer their privacy.