It was part of being a girl in the '60s that you were creative.

As the most recently arrived to earthly life, children can seem in lingering possession of some heavenly lidless eye.

You are unhappy because you believe in such a thing as happy.

I've accrued a kind of patience, I believe, loosely like change.

The problem with a beautiful woman is that she makes everyone around her feel hopelessly masculine, which if you’re already male to begin with poses no particular problem. But if you’re anyone else, your whole sexual identity gets dragged into the principal’s office: “So what’s this I hear about you prancing around, masquerading as a woman?” You are answerless. You are sitting on your hands. You are praying for your breasts to grow, your hair to perk up.

One should never turn one's back on a vivid imagination.

I missed him. Love, I realized, was something your spine memorized. There was nothing you could do about that.