Even the best of us are at least part-time bastards.

If you lie to your husband - even about something so banal as how much you drink - each lie is a brick in a wall going up between you, and when he tells you he loves you, it's deflected away.

I'd spent way more years worrying about how to look like a poet -- buying black clothes, smearing on scarlet lipstick, languidly draping myself over thrift-store furniture -- than I had learning how to assemble words in some discernible order.

Be willing to be a child and be the Lilliputian in the world of Gulliver.

I do have a really good memory. I mean, like, I can remember all the phone numbers of everybody on the street I grew up on.

For me, everything's too much and nothing's enough.

How much smaller the large places are once we're grown up, when we have car keys and credit cards.