When someone stabs you it's not your fault that you feel pain.

Or - perhaps - I should just worry about my own behavior and let others be who they are.

What haunted people even, perhaps especially, on their deathbed? What chased them, tortured them and brought some of them to their knees? And [he] thought he had the answer. Regret. Regret for things said, things done, and things not done. Regret for the people they might have been. And failed to be.

I'm just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.

The women in the room chatted about love, about childhood, about losing parents, about Mr. Spock, about good books they'd read. They mothered each other.

I've seen enough successful writers who no longer seem to care when they are recognized with an award, and I think that's just tragic.

What people mistook for safety was in fact captivity.