I Often Don't Read Reviews.

I Did Not Kill My Father, But I Sometimes Felt I Had Helped Him On His Way. And But For The Fact That It Coincided With A Landmark In My Own Physical Growth, His Death Seemed Insignificant Compared To What Followed.

Arguing With A Dead Man In A Lavatory Is A Claustrophobic Experience.

How Can A Novelist Achieve Atonement When, With Her Absolute Power Of Deciding Outcomes, She Is Also God?

Had It Taken Her This Long To Discover That She Lacked Some Simple Mental Trick That Everyone Else Had, A Mechanism So Ordinary That No One Ever Mentioned It, An Immediate Sensual Connection To People And Events, And To Her Own Needs And Desires? All These Years She Had Lived In Isolation Within Herself And, Strangely, From Herself, Never Wanting Or Daring To Look Back.

Was It Possible That I Was, In The Modern Term, In Denial?