A divorce is like an amputation: you survive it, but there's less of you.

I look up at the ceiling, tracing the foliage of the wreath. Today it makes me think of a hat, the large-brimmed hats women used to wear at some period during the old days: hats like enormous halos, festooned with fruit and flowers, and the feathers of exotic birds; hats like an idea of paradise, floating just above the head, a thought solidified.

I'll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I'll make you me.

All fathers are invisible in daytime; daytime is ruled by mothers and fathers come out at night. Darkness brings home fathers, with their real, unspeakable power. There is more to fathers than meets the eye.

In the animal world individuals cheat, as do we.

You can pretty much trace when the big individual indebtedness kicked in, and it was when the credit card became generally available.

Time is not a thing that passes ... it's a sea on which you float.