There is nothing perfect...only life.

In a way, humans are not made of skin and bones as such, as we're made of stories.

When he spoke, the roughness was gone from his voice. "I could tell you I did it. That's what you wanna hear. I could tell you she did it to herself, but both ways I'd be lying. It was you who did it, Lily. You didn't mean it, but it was you.

After you get stung, you can't get unstung no matter how much you whine about it.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.

Rebirth is almost impossible without the darkness.....I tell myself I am experiencing the death of myself as mother, the death of myself as a younger woman -- precious old lives going by the wayside. Of course, I should let myself grieve. To deny the grief is to squander a transforming and radiant possibility.

We can't think of changing our skin color. Change the world - that's how we gotta think.