Words are our life. We are human because we use language. So I think we are less human when we use less language.
There are chapters in every life which are seldom read and certainly not aloud.
It was a very emotional time.
Men are portrayed as buffoons these days and I was trying not to do that, but men are the ultimate mystery to me.
I don't think I would have been a writer if I hadn't been a mother. I wanted to construct something that contained some of these feelings that I had, some of these discoveries or revelations.
Why should men be allowed to strut under the privilege of their life adventures, wearing them like a breast full of medals, while women went all gray and silent beneath the weight of theirs?
Bookish people, who are often maladroit people, persist in thinking they can master any subtlety so long as it's been shaped into acceptable expository prose.
Happiness is the lucky pane of glass you carry in your head. It takes all your cunning just to hang on to it, and once it's smashed you have to move into a different sort of life.
Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.
I'm concerned about the unknowability of other people.