“I couldn't bring this sorrow home. Couldn't tell my wife. Wouldn't tell my children. As my friend Edward Dee says, we live in the worst twenty minutes of someone else's life. So I leave it behind . . . where it happened . . . where it belongs . . . not in my house.”

“I stood on the street, staring up at the most normal-looking house in the world. My house. I'd lived there my entire life. It was home. It was safe.It was haunted.The only other explanation was that I was demented. I couldn't say which I was rooting for.”

“How can I expect readers to know who I am if I do not tell them about my family, my friends, the relationships in my life? Who am I if not where I fit in the world, where I fit in the lives of the people dear to me?”

“Nor can I allow you to leave my arms, unless I can be certain you know that this is where you belong. Can you not feel that your place is here - in my arms, in my home, in my life?”

“My worst flaw is that I tell secrets, my own and everybody else's. ”

“I'd thought I'd live with my wife, but I couldn't find one.”