My great-aunt. . . . said nobody under 18 had any business reading Dickens. . . . She was right.

My Real Children starts quietly, then suddenly takes you on two roller-coaster rides at once, swooping dizzily through a double panorama and ending in a sort of super Sophie's Choice. A daring tour de force.

there are times when you have to speak because silence is betrayal.

It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

Living, being in the world, was a much greater and stranger thing than she had ever dreamed.

Progress means nothing to presence.

Crankish attacks on the freedom to read are common at present. When backed and coordinated by organized groups, they become sinister.