Many writers over the centuries simply do not have the reputations they deserve because they were female, and that is an act of suppression.

Memory offers up its gifts only when jogged by something in the present. It isn't a storehouse of fixed images and words, but a dynamic associative network in the brain that is never quiet and is subject to revision each time we retrieve an old picture or old words.

Reading is a private pursuit; one that takes place behind closed doors.

I've always thought of wholeness and integration as necessary myths. We're gragmented beings who cement ourselves together, but there are always cracks. Living with the cracks is part of being, well, reasonably healthy.

The faculty of memory cannot be separated from the imagination. They go hand in hand. To one degree or another, we all invent our personal pasts. And for most of us those pasts are built from emotionally colored memories.

Great books are the ones that are urgent, life-changing, the ones that crack open the reader’s skull and heart.

We chart delusions through collective agreement.