I always do the wrong. I do the wrong thing so much that the times I actually do the right thing stand out so brightly in my memory that I forget I always do the wrong thing.

Blasts from the past were like the rooms one entered and re-entered in dreams: they would not stay nailed down. When you returned to them, they had changed - they suddenly had more space or a tilt or a door that had not been there before. New people were milling around, the floors undulated, and the sun shone newly, strangely in the windows, or through the now blasted-open ceiling, or else it shone not at all, as if having fled the sky.

If you look at most womens writing, women writers will describe women differently from the way male writers describe women. The details that go into a woman writers description of a female character are, perhaps, a little more judgmental. Theyre looking for certain things, because they know what women do to look a certain way.

I've never been to a dinner party where everyone at the dinner table didn't say something funny.

We had put almost all of our possessions in storage, which was a metaphor for being twenty, as were so many things.

Perhaps we had at last reached that stage of intimacy that destroys intimacy.

She was unequal to anyone's wistfulness. She had made too little of her life. Its loneliness shamed her like a crime.