We wrote our first blog post before we wrote our first line of code.
So many things that seemed crucial and excruciatingly hard ended and then didn't matter anymore, forever after
We all - in the end - die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.
Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later; art can be ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.
Even as a feminist, my whole life I'd been waiting for a man to love, who could love me. For decades, I'd thought that man would be my father. When I was 25, I met that man and he was my brother.
Everybody in America grew up without a father even if they had one. It was the fifties. They were working.
Often, I think, displaced people imagine themselves leading double lives. So a portion of my identity has always been privately siphoned into what would have been if I had stayed in Wisconsin.
Somewhere between a friend and acquaintance—a frequaintance, as it were.
Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table--it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-hankerchief. You then stuff your hankerchief back into your pocket--that is not Byron; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years' time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.
Initiative is the privilege of picking yourself.
A distinguished clergyman told me that he chose the profession of a clergyman because it afforded the most leisure for literary pursuits. I would recommend to him the profession of a governor.