Smile: The Story of a Face

And in this day and age, we sometimes seem to care more about the record of joy than the experience of joy itself.

Shame is an odd emotion. It clings to things over which we have no control, like a scent.

When diseases and stories are chronic, doctors and writers often both run for the hills

But don’t we need to cross over? Is this not a moral imperative for art, but also for social discourse? Don’t we need to imagine people different from ourselves, people whose experiences we can only imagine?

I often try to solve problems by buying books.

A girl, a woman who is two-thirds done, is nearer to God. A young woman on the verge of knowing herself is the most attractive thing on this earth to a man for this very reason.

This is my body. I am my soul. These are my lips. I am my word. This is my skin. I am my action. These are my legs. I am my contribution. This is my smile. I am my laughter.

There was an abundance of sweetness. But I often felt I was observing it from a distance, rather than participating in the sweetness.

Our culture values perfect pictures of ourselves, mirage, over and above authentic connection. But we meet one another through the imperfect particular of our bodies. Imperfection calls out for affinity—for the beloved to say, I too am broken, but may I join you?

Mothers and daughters: two circles, and the all-important bounded sections where they are complete unto themselves. Daughters perhaps have a tendency to point at the differences, mothers to point at the commonalities.