“She taught me what's important, and what isn't. And I've never forgotten. And that's what mothers do, I say.”

“I've forgotten most of what I've read and, frankly, it never seemed very important to me or to the world.”

“I want to write. I've already told my mother: That's what I want to do-write. No answer the first time. Then she asks, Write what? I say, Books, novels. [...] She's against it, it's not worthy, it's not real work, it's nonsense. Later she said, A childish idea.”

“Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?”

“Try saying this: 'What's true for me today is that I have angry feelings concerning what I heard you say when you said what you said. It reminds me of what my mother said when she said what she said, and that hurts me so that's where I'm at with this, and it's not all right with me for today.' This should help to avoid a lot of communication problems.”

“It isn't what I do, but how I do it. It isn't what I say, but how I say it, and how I look when I do it and say it.”