I kept thinking how they were all names of dead people, and how names are basically the only thing dead people keep.

I could tell that Mom was dreaming, but I didn't want to know what she was dreaming about, because I had enough of my own nightmares, and if she had been dreaming something happy, I would have been angry at her for dreaming something happy.

This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence?

Why does watching a dog be a dog fill one with happiness?

I always write out of a need to read something, rather than a need to write something.

She avoids mirrors, and lifts a powerful telescope to find herself.

I took the world into me, rearranged it, and sent it back out as a question: "Do you like me?