“My dear," he sighed when the lights were turned on and they both looked older, "it's been a mistake, our having a family and writing histories and getting middle-aged. We should have been picturesquely shipwrecked together when we were young.”

“My dear, dear girl [. . .] we can't turn back the days that have gone. We can't turn life back to the hours when our lungs were sound, our blood hot, our bodies young. We are a flash of fire--a brain, a heart, a spirit. And we are three-cents-worth of lime and iron--which we cannot get back.”

“Family gatherings were... um, let's see, what's the word I'm looking for?... Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served and referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.”

“We shouldn't have been so scornful; we should have had compassion. But compassion takes work, and we were young.”

“As you have been on the road, what have you been hearing from readers about A RELIABLE WIFE?RG: The most interesting question came from a young man in his 30s who asked me to discuss the relationship between love and aging. We think when we’re young that, as we get older, our passions and enthusiasms will fade, will lose their hold on us, and we will enter into some more gentle phase. I don’t find it to be true. Our passions, in fact, intensify, like a sauce that has been reduced to its essence by long slow simmering over a low flame.”

“We are contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we were not suffering.”