The Great Indoors
"I've never been one for greenery. In my salad, sure. In my wallet, of course. But I'm sort of lukewarm about grassy knolls and weeping willows; subway turnstiles and high-rise buildings are more my thing, the anonymity of the city a headier drug than the fresh air of the country."
The Art of Losing
"The things I have broken this year include the following: my precious Chinese teapot, a piece of tile in the bathroom, my boyfriend's coffeemaker (twice), various rules, several diets, three wineglasses and two plates, countless fingernails, and the saddle on my bicycle. On the upside, however, no hearts, no windows, no bones, and no trust. At least that I'm aware of."
She’s Leaving Home
"My father proposed to my mother while she was wearing a green face mask. It was suburban London, 1975. It was unexpected. When she opened the door with avocado puree mashed across each cheekbone, he almost pretended he'd driven over to pick up something he'd forgotten rather than ask her to marry him."
Lighting Out
"If you asked me where I grew up, I couldn't tell you. By the time I was 11, I'd been to eight different schools and lived in 10 different houses in six different countries. I grew up in airports and hotels and on planes. Mostly, I grew up in transit."
Hanging With Mr. Whitman
"I've got a bit of a thing for Walt Whitman; as American poets go, he seems to be the cream of the crop. Funnily enough, I don't normally pick guys who have a penchant for flamboyant hats and frock coats, who write erotic poetry about other men, or who were born in 1819, but I've made an exception for this one."