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But for all that we had, for all the luxury to which we were accustomed, we were both denied love, and this deficiency would be scorched into our future lives like an ill-considered tattoo inscribed on the buttocks after a drunken night out, leading each of us inevitably toward isolation and
disaster.
“It’s a hideous profession. Entered into by narcissists who think their pathetic little imaginations will be of interest to people they’ve never met.”
the Irish were the one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.
“Can I help you?” asked Maude, turning to her with all the warmth of Lizzie Borden dropping in to say goodnight to her parents.
that life had manifested the heart’s invisible furies on his face.
Maybe there were no villains in my mother’s story at all. Just men and women, trying to do their best by each other. And failing.
