There's something final about saying you were married once. It's like saying you were dead once. It shuts them up.

I lie on the floor, washed by nothing and hanging on. I cry at night. I am afraid of hearing voices, or a voice. I have come to the edge, of the land. I could get pushed over.

There is good and mediocre writing within every genre.

You can forget who you are if you're alone too much.

I was unfair to him, of course, but where would I have been without unfairness? In thrall, in harness. Young women need unfairness, it's one of their few defenses. They need their callousness, they need their ignorance. They walk in the dark, along the edges of high cliffs, humming to themselves, thinking themselves invulnerable.

I don't think it's a question of whether you eat meat. It's a question of what kind of meat, and where it comes from.

All I can hope for is a reconstruction: the way love feels is always only approximate.