Philosophy is an odd thing. When we use the word in everyday speech, you know, you sometimes hear it hilariously.

I shouldn't be saying this - high treason, really - but I sometimes wonder if Americans aren't fooled by our accent into detecting brilliance that may not really be there.

You can't reason yourself back into cheerfulness any more than you can reason yourself into an extra six inches in height.

I am a lover of truth, a worshipper of freedom, a celebrant at the altar of language and purity and tolerance.

Just about this time, when in imagination I was so great a warrior, I had good use in real life for more strength, as I was no longer taken to school by the nurse, but instead had myself to protect my brother, two years my junior.

The more I've gotten interested in writing about history and making sense of myself within the continuum of history, the more I've turned to paintings, to art. I look to the imagery of art to help me understand something about my own place in the world.

I'm grateful for being able to explore different avenues of my writing, whether it be music or stories, and it have an audience.

I never stop being a mother and I never stop being an artist. You understand? Which is probably why my kids are so creative, because it's not separated.