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.

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.