I don't write for an audience. I write for myself. And if I imagine an audience at all, it's the characters, but I know that I would keep writing even if no one ever published me again, even if no one ever read me again.

In language that's lyrical and haunting, Cheryl Strayed writes about bliss and loss, about the kind of grace that startles and transforms us in ordinary moments.

The absence of doubt will turn humans into beasts.

About endings....unless we do them well, we have to keep repeating them.

I like to keep myself wrapped in layers of sleep and wait for the geraniums.

That's the nature of being a parent, Sabine has discovered. You'll love your children far more than you ever loved your parents, and -- in the recognition that your own children cannot fathom the depth of your love -- you come to understand the tragic, unrequited love of your own parents.

A perfectly happy marriage? There is no such thing. There are strong marriages that can survive problems, but happiness is such a brief condition, interrupted by difficulties and plain, boring routine.

What the river was showing her now was that she could flow beyond the brokenness, redeem herself, and fuse once more.

Some acts of faith, I believe, have the power to grant us something infinitely wiser than we imagine

About the different levels of skill involved. You have to practice before you become a great masturbator.