I suppose at some point, we all have to decide which memories - real or otherwise - to hold on to, and which ones to let go.

What very mysterious things days were. Sometimes they fly by, and other times they seem to last forever, yet they are all exactly twenty-four hours. There's quite a lot we don't know about them.

Unlike men, women got less sentimental as we aged, I was discovering.

I certainly incorporate facts into my fiction. I take the basic facts from the life of my subject and I pick and choose what to use to construct a really interesting novel. I don't let facts get in the way of my imagination and my exploration of the subject's emotions and relationships.

When you write things down, they sometimes take you places you hadn't planned.

I see things beyond what other people see. I am always looking for hidden corners and closets of a life that I feel aren't explored either by the person who lived it or the people writing about it.

There is always so much talk about the sins of the fathers but it is the sins of the mothers that are the most difficult to avoid repeating.

Why were there so many barriers between us, always? Barriers of clothing, of etiquette, of time and age and reason.