A child embarrassed by his mother,” she said, “is just a child who hasn’t lived long enough.

If you really could fit God in a file, you wouldn't need to believe in God, you know, you'd just go get the file like a box of corn flakes off the shelf.

With Marguerite, he wanted only time—more and more time—and he was granted it, nighttimes and daytimes and nighttimes again.

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

Kids chase the love that eludes them.

When someone is in your heart, they're never truly gone. They can come back to you, even at unlikely times.

Something is always happening somewhere.