What a thrill, what a shock, to be alive on a morning in June, prosperous, almost scandalously privileged, with a simple errand to run.

That summer when she was eighteen, it seemed anything could happen, anything at all.

What I wanted to do seemed simple. I wanted something alive and shocking enough that it could be a morning in somebody's life. The most ordinary morning. Imagine, trying to do that.

I am beginning to understand the true difference between youth and age. Young people have time to make plans and think of new ideas. Older people need their whole energy to keep up with what’s already been set in motion.

You can't find peace by avoiding life.

She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself.

Love is deep, a mystery - who wants to understand its every particular?