We are all children until our fathers die.

It scares me how fast I go from disliking to loving him, and I wonder if it’s this way for everyone.

Olive Kitteridge' is a masterpiece: The writing is so perfect you don't even notice it; the story is so vivid it's less like reading a story than experiencing it firsthand.

I live by Edith Whartons rule to get rid of anything neither useful nor beautiful. So I put the TV out on the street.

I guess love is the real suspension of disbelief.

I feel in some ways I've had a difficult life. And it makes me the kind of writer I am, in what I value, what I respect, what I hold dear.

But then you hear that he can't hear you, you see that he can't see you. You are not here--and you haven't even died yet. You see yourself through his eyes, as The Generic Woman, the skirted symbol on the ladies' room door.