All fat women look the same; they all look 42.

I wish this story were different. I wish it were more civilized. I wish it showed me in a better light, if not happier, than at least more active, less hesitant, less distracted by trivia. I wish it had more shape. I wish t were about love, or about sudden realizations important to one’s life, or even about sunsets, birds, rainstorms, or snow. I’m sorry there is so much pain in this story. I’m sorry it’s in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire or pulled apart by force. But there is nothing I can do to change it.

Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space.

The true story is vicious and multiple and untrue after all. Why do you need it? Don’t ever ask for the true story.

We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?

It's probably a form of childish curiosity that keeps me going as a fiction writer. I ... want to open everybody's bureau drawers and see what they keep in there. I'm nosy.

We thought we were running away from the grownups, and now we are the grownups.