Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.

For women, marriages foreclosed often resulted in an accumulation of booty; for men, these failed projects of implausible optimism were more likely to manifest themselves in material lack. It was hard to resist the metaphorical impression that women got to keep the past itself, whereas men were simply robbed of it.

That boy hardly needed a mask when his naked face was already impenetrable.

Maybe the greatest favour a spouse can tender is to overlook what you can't.

I seem to remember even from when I was very young that when you loved someone you also hated them for making you love them, since loving someone is so incredibly humiliating.

It is never persuasive to argue that you are not the kind of person who does what you are actually doing.

The existence of other people is essentially awkward.