We lose ourselves in stories; that's the beauty of literary art.

Like countless first-year medical students, immersed in the symptoms of one disease after another, I am alert to the tingles and pangs, the throbs and quivers of my mortal body, each one of which is potentially a sign of the end.

A book is a collaboration between the one who reads and what is read and, at its best, that coming together is a love story like any other.

Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer, and each dreamer has his own folds to open and knots to untie.

That night as I lay in bed, I thought of several things I could have said and mourned the fact that my wit usually bloomed late, peaking when it no longer mattered, during the solitary hours close to midnight.

Pain is always emotional. Fear and depression keep constant company with chronic hurting.

Being a mother is complicated because its not just a paternal culture making demands on you; its those internal demands and expectations that women have and are self-generated.