One’s child is always one’s child no matter what age they might be. You worry when your child makes a noise, when he doesn’t. It’s a terrible kind of love. Terrible.

A story is a wondrous invention.

To survive one tragedy was to learn you cannot survive them all, and this knowledge was both a freedom and a great loss.

False assurances were certainly more harmful than none at all.

We adapt to our sorrows, I suppose, as unpleasant as they might be. One cannot weep forever. One simply runs dry of tears.

It was easy to imagine the beginning of time here, but also, perhaps, its end.