With Children The Clock Is Reset. We

I Am Drawn To Any Story That Makes Me Want To Read From One Sentence To The Next. I Have No Other Criterion.

And Yet She Could Not Forgive Herself. Even As An Adult, She Wished Only That She Could Go Back And Change Things: The Ungainly Things She’d Worn, The Insecurity She’d Felt, All The Innocent Mistakes She Made.

There Were Times Ruma Felt Closer To Her Mother In Death Than She Had In Life, An Intimacy Born Simply Of Thinking Of Her So Often, Of Missing Her. But She Knew That This Was An Illusion, A Mirage, And That The Distance Between Them Was Now Infinite, Unyielding.

It's Easy To Set A Story Anywhere If You Get A Good Guidebook And Get Some Basic Street Names, And Some Descriptions, But, For Me, Yes, I Am Indebted To My Travels To India For Several Of The Stories.

And Wasn't It Terrible, How Much He Looked Forward To Those Moments, So Much So That Sometimes Even A Ride By Himself On The Subway Was The Best Part Of The Day? Wasn't It Terrible That After All The Work One Put Into Finding A Person To Spend One's Life With, After Making A Family With That Person, Even In Spite Of Missing That Person...that Solitude Was What One Relished The Most, The Only Thing That, Even In Fleeting, Diminished Doses, Kept One Sane?