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I didn't grow up with my mother, and so losing her for real was like, some sort of latent childhood, some sort of unresolved issue. When she left for real, it was sort of like, I was done.

My mother always thought if her mother hadn't left her, she would have been happy. All the problems she had never would have happened.

My mother gave up a good part of her career to look after me.

I had to go on without my mother, even though I was suffering terribly, grieving her.

I realized that my mother was at the center of my work, because now that my mother is no longer there, there's nobody left.

My mother started out by being a very good girl. She did everything that was expected of her, and it cost her dearly. Late in her life, she was furious that she had not followed her own heart; she thought that it had ruined her life, and I think she was right.

I don't think that much about my relationship with my mother and what it did to me. I sometimes feel terrible regret about her, what her life must have been like. Often, when I'm enjoying something, I think of how meager her rewards were and how much courage, in a way, she needed to go on living.