It happened that at the late age of twenty-seven I had run away from home. High time, you might say; but rebels can't always be choosers.

She could have lived in comfort, but I doubt if it occurred to her to try.

[My father] had spent his own short time like a priest in charge of a relic, forever expecting the blessed blood to liquefy.

I began to ration my writing, for fear I would dream through life as my father had done. I was afraid I had inherited a poisoned gene from him, a vocation without a gift.

My mother has lived every day of her life as if it were preparation for some kind of crisis.

If you listen at doors, you hear what you deserve.