The relationship between parents and children, but especially between mothers and daughters, is tremendously powerful, scarcely to be comprehended in any rational way.

I do what I want to do. It was a brash statement of(her)girlhood. Now she was an adult, the boast seemed quaint. For rarely do you know what you want. Even after you've done it you can't say clearly if that was what you'd wanted or just something that happened to you, like weather.

One writes to memorialize, and to bring to life again that which has been lost.

Productivity is a relative matter. And it's really insignificant: What is ultimately important is a writer's strongest books.

When you give up struggle, there's a kind of love.

For what are the words with which to summarize a lifetime, so much crowded confused happiness terminated by such stark slow-motion pain?

The best revenge is living well without you.