Each memory is like a paper flower stowed up a magician's sleeve: invisible one moment and then so substantial and florid the next I cannot imagine how it stayed hidden all this time. And like those paper flowers, once they've been let loose in the world, the memories are impossible to tuck away again.

The reason I am still sitting at Josef's kitchen table is the same reason traffic slows after a car wreck- you want to see the damage; you can't let yourself pass without that mental snapshot. We are drawn to horror even as we recoil from it.

You have to understand what you’re missing before you can really feel a loss.

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

When the door opens, I realize that the only thing worse than waiting is the moment you realize a decision has been made.

You might not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page. You can't edit a blank page.

Maybe mothers - consciously or subconsciously - repelled their daughters in different ways.