Reality might be described as the eternal equipoise of positive and negative.

I have no sense of a model or predecessor when I write a memoir: For me, the form exists as a method of processing material that retains too many connections to life to be approached strictly and aesthetically. A memoir is a risk, a one-off, a bastard child.

People are least aware of others when demonstrating their own power over them.

My children are living, thinking human beings. It isn't in my power to regret them, for they belong to themselves.

I'm waiting for the day when my children cease to find my domestic propriety reassuring and actually find it annoying.

Divorce also entails the beginning of a supposition that that familial reality might have obstructed one's ability to perceive others.

The creativity of childhood was often surrendered amid feelings of unworthiness. So the idea that ­others are demanding to be given it back - to be "taught" - is disturbing.