Canada was built on dead beavers.

I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.

Within one's own family, money is not the measure of things, unless the person is an absolute Scrooge. Only the most extreme kind of monster would put a price on everything.

Without the protection of surliness and levity, all children would be crushed by the past—the past of others, loaded onto their shoulders. Selfishness is their saving grace.

I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.

Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you've been.

And yet it disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally. I want all my hurts to be intentional.