When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.

You can learn a lot from your lovers, but-for the most part-you get to keep your friends longer, and you learn more from them.

Never confuse faith, or belief — of any kind — with something even remotely intellectual.

Ever since the Christmas of 1953, I have felt that the yuletide is a special hell for those families who have suffered any loss or who must admit to any imperfection; the so-called spirit of giving can be as greedy as receiving-Christmas is our time to be aware of what we lack, of who's not home.

I believe a novel should be as complicated and involved as you're capable of making it.

Life forces enough final decisions on us. We should have the sense to avoid as many of the unnecessary ones as we can.

They were involved in that awkward procedure of getting to unknow each other.