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

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.

If your life isn't exactly the way you want it to be by the time you are forty-five," said Walter's father, whom he admired, "not much point in continuing. You might as well hang yourself.

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

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.

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