There is an hour when you realize: here is what you have been given. More than this, you won't receive. And what this is, what your life has come to, will be taken from you. In time.

It must happen to everyone. The last time you make love, you can't know it will be the last.

I'm nobody's daughter now. I'm through with that.

And that's the insult of it, how always it comes back to a woman being a "good" mother in the world's eyes or a "bad" mother, how everything in a woman's life is funneled through her body between her legs.

Only in love is there trust - even the possibility of trust.

I see the world in ways that might be considered somewhat harsh and Darwinistic. At the same time mediated, as in Darwin, by a real idealism and an excitement about the possibilities of the intellect and imagination to deal with this somewhat brutal world.

Strange: how when a light is extinguished, it's immediately as if it has never been. Darkness fills in again, complete.