I seldom remember my father, but I sneeze and rub my nose the way he did. I also love my son with grief and anger, as he did.

Small successes are still successes; great failures are still failures.

Deconstruction: peering suspiciously at the text, I wait for it to make a slip and betray itself.

Every time I change the way I explain myself to myself, I have to rearrange the story of my life.

Loving, not the beloved, is the joy of love. The beloved, knowing this, most resolutely declines to be grateful.

My mind is led astray by every faint rustle.

I love you is the inscription on Pandora's box.