My Mother Was My First Jealous Lover.

Grief Does Not End And Love Does Not Die And Nothing Fills Its Graven Place. With Grace, Pain Is Transmuted Into The Gold Of Wisdom And Compassion And The Lesser Coin Of Muted Sadness And Resignation; But Something Leaden Of It Remains, To Become The Kernel Arond Which More Pain Accretes (a Black Pearl): One Pain Becomes Every Other Pain ... Unless One Strips Away, One By One, The Layers Of Pain To Get To The Heart Of The Pain - And This Causes More Pain, Pain So Intense As To Feel Like Evisceration.

In The Face Of Evil, Detachment Is A Dubious Virtue.

Great Unhappiness Is Incompatible With The Belief That It Will Ever End.

To Have A Crisis, And Act Upon It, Is One Thing. To Dwell In Perpetual Crisis Is Another.

It's Perfectly Possible To Hate One's Fat And To Love One's Body At The Same Time.