The idea that motherhood is inherently somehow a threat to creativity is just absurd.

Sometimes, one wants to have the illusion that one is making ones own life, out of ones own resources.

Cambridge was a joy. Tediously. People reading books in a posh place. It was my fantasy. I loved it. I miss it still.

It seems to me,' said Magid finally, as the moon became clearer than the sun, 'that you have tried to love a man as if he were an island and you were shipwrecked and you could mark the land with an X. It seems to me it is too late in the day for all that.' Then he gave her a kiss on the forehead that felt like a baptism and she wept like a baby.

Pulchritude--beauty where you would least suspect it, hidden in a word that looked like it should signify a belch or a skin infection.

When people use that stream of consciousness, it's kind of just a term they use for anything that looks slightly different on the page.

I'm a writer who never writes about sex. It's so far from my own fictional world.