It was hard for me to imagine there being that kind of a memory already that old for my much-younger friend. But eventually we all have past lives.

And that I cannot alter my basic truths, where I came from, who I am. But I can rearrange their importance in my life. I can alter the hierarchy. I can choose which needs are in charge. What is running the show emotionally. That is perhaps the only thing I can control.

Having any success as an author is like getting a promotion, only they don’t hire anyone to replace you at your own job. I had to be a good writer and I had to be a good salesperson.

But what if we let time pass, looking at an incident in the rearview mirror rather than at the moment of impact? We can wave goodbye to it, but still see it so clearly, captured in a pristine reflection. And what do we gain? Perspective, wisdom, and perhaps not acceptance—some things do not deserve to be accepted, after all—but at least a sense of

I had been the one to impose all the hard work on myself; I was also the only one who could impose the time sitting still.

And how do you explain that nearly no one is good enough, it has to do with how much work you put in, your diligence, your persistence, some fortune, some luck. And I suppose it has to be with your willingness to imagine things that aren’t there. They didn’t need me to give them permission to live their dreams. No one had ever given me permission

For a second I was so sad and tired from this endless cycle of men being men, and women having to deal with it. We cannot win.

I would not trade my relationship with my brain for anything—it has always served me best; it is truthful, reliable, powerful; it solves problems; it makes art; it helps me to be of service in the universe. It is my reason for being.

(Consultancy, the great modern mystery profession.)