To cure jealousy is to see it for what it is, a dissatisfaction with self.
I closed the box and put it in a closet. There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.
Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
I don't have a very clear idea of who the characters are until they start talking.
Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.
Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.