Twenty-year-olds have a kind of emotional idealism about relationships and about the world that enables them to say, 'No, you lied to me. Goodbye.' When they see wickedness, they walk away.

This is what happened in love. One of you cried a lot and then both of you grew sarcastic.

Back at home, days later, feel cranky and tired. Sit on the couch and tell him he's stupid. That you bet he doesn't know who Coriolanus is. That since you moved in you've noticed he rarely reads. He will give you a hurt, hungry-to-learn look, with his James Cagney eyes. He will try to kiss you. Turn your head. Feel suffocated. (from "How")

I usually grow sick of my short-story characters and think, 'I never want to see you again.'

They had, finally, the only thing anyone really wants in life: someone to hold your hand when you die.

I've never been to a dinner party where everyone at the dinner table didn't say something funny.