He was one of those rare men who are capable of being fully in love only once in their lives.

When men talk about the agony of being men, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of self-pity. And when women talk about being women, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of blaming men.

We set down feasts for each other and treated our love with tongues of fire. Our bodies were fields of wonder to us.

Love came in wounded and frantic ways to my dismaying family.

I could not bear to think that I wrote a five-hundred page novel just because I needed to love my father.

Writing is more about imagination than anything else. I fell in love with words. I fell in love with storytelling.