You know, I don't think there's anything truly unforgivable. Not where there's love.

Lots of people go mad in January. Not as many as in May, of course. Nor June. But January is your third most common month for madness.

The happening and telling are very different things. This doesn’t mean that the story isn’t true, only that I honestly don’t know anymore if I really remember it or only remember how to tell it. Language does this to our memories, simplifies, solidifies, codifies, mummifies. An off-told story is like a photograph in a family album. Eventually it replaces the moment it was meant to capture.

We all have a sense of level. It may not be based on class exactly anymore, but we still have a sense of what we're entitled to. People pick partners who are nearly their equal in looks. The pretty marry the pretty, the ugly the ugly. To the detriment of the breed.

Where you succeed will never matter so much as where you fail.

I thought there were moments to complain about your parents and moments to be grateful, and it was a shame to mix those moments up.

Just ask yourself, if we weren't taught to be women, what would we be? (Ask yourself this question even if you're a man, and don't cheat by changing the words.)