But there are still the hours, aren't there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there's another.

But there are still the hours, aren't there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there's another.

A writer should always feel like he's in over his head

I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

Please, God, send me something to adore.

I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself: So, this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.

Jenny Offill's Dept. of Speculation resembles no book I've read before. If I tell you that it's funny, and moving, and true; that it's as compact and mysterious as a neutron; that it tells a profound story of love and parenthood while invoking (among others) Keats, Kafka, Einstein, Russian cosmonauts, and advice for the housewife of 1896, will you please simply believe me, and read it?