My uncle Max was a mountain, a shooting star, a big bear of a man, a piggyback ride waiting to happen, his pockets full of candy and, later money, or whatever the particular currency of our ages happened to be. He was rock concerts, baseball games, he was yes when my parents were no, he was a consolation for every disappointment.

you cannot hope for change in others, you can only work toward it in yourself. And that's hard work.

The woman I was seems hopelessly naive. I envy her.

Writers are first and foremost observers. We lose ourselves in the watching and then the telling of the world we find. Often we feel on the fringes, in the margins of life. And that's where we belong. What you are a part of, you cannot observe.

We can't hold on to anyone or anything, you know. We lose everything except that which we carry within us.

Judgment is such a useful shield, isn't it? We can hide behind it, rise above others on its crest, keep ourselves safe and separate.

Isn't it funny how the people least impacted by tragedy are the most eager to move on?