“One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.”

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

Everything in life is writable.

I woke to the sound of rain.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery – air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

A man’s world is different from a woman’s world and a man’s emotions are different from a woman’s emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted and spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.