My mind is huge with little stories that I never told you.

You can call it innocence, or you can call it gullibility, but Celia made the most common mistake of the good-hearted: she assumed that everyone else was just like her.

In a country that doesn't discriminate between fame and infamy, the latter presents itself as plainly more achievable.

Time itself made all things rare.

Funny how the nature of a normal day is the first memory to fade.

Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.

...whenever a woman describes a man as sweet, the dalliance is doomed.

Though surely to avoid attachments for fear of loss is to avoid life.

I thought at the time that I couldn't be horrified anymore, or wounded. I suppose that's a common conceit, that you've already been so damaged that damage itself, in its totality, makes you safe.

I was mortified by the prospect of becoming hopelessly trapped in someone else's story.

A carpet of despair which lay underneath the levels of fury.

It is my conviction that when events are forgotten, buried in the cellar of the page, they are no longer even history.

Waiting is a form of passive persistence.

The want of logic annoys. Too much logic bores. Life eludes logic, and everything that logic alone constructs remains artificial and forced.

I just realized that with the invention of the iPhone and others you now get to see the top of people's heads.

I have already expressed my opinion on this subject in treating of rent, and have now only further to add, that rent is a creation of value, as I understand that word, but not a creation of wealth.

We have to provide good teachers, good environment, community involvement with schools.

Piety is the tinfoil of pretense.

I am a good mother and I feel proud about it.

God watches over drunks and third baseman.

The music takes over the words and makes them speak to me in another language.