I like to cook; it is, for me, a happy combination of mindlessness and purpose.

Families hold each other in an iron grip of definition. One must break the grip, somehow.

It was hard to reassure grown-ups when you weren't certain yourself what you were feeling and thinking—when thoughts dissolved before you could name them.

Labels not only free us from the obligation to think creatively; they numb our sensibilities, our power to feel. During the Vietnam War, the phrase body count entered our vocabulary. It is an ambiguous phrase, inorganic, even faintly sporty. It distanced us from the painful reality of corpses, of dead, mutilated people.

The truth came slowly like a story told by people interrupting each other.

I have a painter's memory. I can remember things from my childhood which were so powerfully imprinted on me, the whole scene comes back.

I was the goldfish that leapt out of the bowl.