Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet.

I'm the only person you've ever met who has read Longfellow.

The characters [of The Tempest] have always been favorites of mine. It is one of his meditations on art - what it does.

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

If you're a woman writer, sometime, somewhere, you will be asked: Do you think of yourself as a writer first, or as a woman first? Look out. Whoever asks this hates and fears both writing and women.

We have begun to slam doors, and to throw things. I throw my purse, an ashtray, a package of chocolate chips, which breaks on impact. We are picking up chocolate chips for days. Jon throws a glass of milk, the milk, not the glass: he knows his own strength, as I do not. He throws a box of Cheerios, unopened. The things I throw miss, although they are worse things. The things he throws hit, but are harmless. I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.

The moment of betrayal is the worst, the moment when you know beyond any doubt that you've been betrayed: that some other human being has wished you that much evil