I asked myself, 'Am I going to withdraw from the world, like most people do, or am I going to live?' I decided I am going to live - or at least try to live - the way I want, with dignity, with courage, with humor, with composure.

For many of us, the curtain had just come down on childhood.

My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt and sauce.

If you want to be a good writer, make sure you read. I'm amazed by how many people don't bother to do that.

But my father, a thief in many ways, had robbed me of my concentration.

When a baby comes into the world, its hands are clenched, right? Like this?" He made a fist. "Why? Because a baby not knowing any better, wants to grab everything, to say the whole world is mine. But when an old person dies, how does he do so? With his hands open. Why? Because he has learned his lesson." "What lesson?" I asked. He stretched open his empty fingers. "We can take nothing with us.

No life is a waste. The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we're alone.