In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys.

Menopause. A pause while you reconsider men.

Once upon a time, novelists of the 19th century, such as Charles Dickens, published in serial form.

Cleverness is a quality a man likes to have in his wife as long as she is some distance away from him. Up close, he'll take kindness any day of the week, if there's nothing more alluring to be had.

At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.

An eye for an eye only leads to more blindness.