So much of the language of love was like that: you devoured someone with your eyes, you drank in the sight of him, you swallowed him whole. Love was substance, broken down and beating through your bloodstream.

It never failed to amaze me how the most ordinary day could be catapulted into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye.

What we all want, really, is to be loved. That craving drives our worst behavior.

Being a parent wasn't just about bearing a child. It was about bearing witness to its life.

You're unwilling to go out on a limb because it just might break underneath you.

There is no one truth. There’s only what happened, based on how you perceive it.

It's like the psychiatrists themselves are buying into that stupid belief that therapy is something to hide.