In the deepest, purest parts of our imaginations there is no male or female, no bad or good, no villain or hero, no you or I. There is only feeling, and the exhilaration of feeling.

When we are young, we give ourselves completely. We allow our first friends or first lovers or first songs inside us, to become a part of our unformed being, without ever thinking of the consequences, or of their permanence within us.

Happiness is not an end point. It is not a long-hidden treasure marked with an X on a map. It is not a reward, handed to you after years of diligent service. Happiness is like being in your mother’s womb – warm, safe, buoyant – with no inkling of when it will end and why.

But life isn’t as orderly as a story or a song; it does not always begin and end at compelling points.

Her beauty was not a physical trait. Her beauty was an influence you fell under – like a stiff drink or a line of sweet flour – infusing you with bravery and wit and affability that you never knew existed inside of yourself until she coaxed it out.

Being a woman is always a performance; only the very old and very young are allowed to bow out of it.

If passion is deeply entwined with uncertainty, then a mother’s love is the opposite: it never wavers, never depends on performance, never requires an equal amount of love in return. You have the luxury of brushing off a mother’s love, knowing your scorn or indifference will never make it go away. It is like air – you can forget it exists, and that it is essential to your life.

Beyond that kitchen and those cane fields was a world of possibilities that I could not fathom, but wanted to. I was awed by the avarice of that cane fire. It was beautiful in its constant need, in its unbridled hunger. I watched it burn, its heat pounding against my skin, and knew that we were alike, that fire and me. We wanted more than we’d been given, and we always would.

People who attribute success to luck have never truly been successful. Luck may place an opportunity in your lap, but only a constant, obsessive attention transforms that opportunity into some kind of meaningful success.

Her beauty was not a physical trait. Her beauty was an influence you fell under - like a stiff drink or a line of sweet flour - infusing you with bravery and wit and affability that you never knew existed inside of yourself until she coaxed it out.