You have your wonderful memories," people said later, as if memories were solace. Memories are not. Memories are by definition of times past, things gone. Memories are the Westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. Memories are what you no longer want to remember.

The fear is for what is still to be lost.

Grief, when it comes, is nothing like we expect it to be.

We imagine things — that we wouldn't be able to survive, but in fact, we do survive. ... We have no choice, so we do it.

You have to make sure you have the characters you want. That's really the most complicated part.

We all have the same dreams.

Short stories demand a certain awareness of one's own intentions, a certain narrowing of the focus.