Quotes from Lionel Shriver

My approach to parenthood was conditional, and the conditions were strict. I did not want to mother an imbecile or a paraplegic; whenever I saw fatigued women wheeling their stick-limbed progeny with muscular dystrophy for water therapy at Nyack Hospital, my heart didn't melt, it sank.

maybe it's inevitable that the very things that first attract you to someone are the same things with which you later grow irritated.

Some people think that asking a question gives them a right to know the answer somehow. Well, it's not true. You've no right to anything. I'll tell you what I want to. I don't care what you ask.

In 1999, and a mere ten days after a certain Thursday , eighteen-year-old Eric Harris and seventeen-year-old Dylan Klebold planted bombs in their Littleton, Colorado, high school and went on a shooting rampage that killed one teacher and twelve students, while wounding twenty-three, after which they shot themselves. So young Kevin—your choice—has turned out as American as a Smith and Wesson.

And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story. I should know; I am in flight from my story every day, and it dogs me like a faithful stray. Accordingly, the one respect in which I depart from my younger self is that I now regard those people who have little or no story to tell themselves as terribly fortunate.

Me, I think you only get at gist by assembling all the tiny inconclusive anecdotes that would fall flat at a dinner table and that seem irrelevant until you collect them in a pile.

The only way my head was going truly somewhere else was to travel to a different life and not to a different airport.

I have spent less time thinking about my husband than thinking about lunch.

Speak of the devil. Luella had wandered in wearing what might once have been a stylish frock, but the hem was shredded from her having torn at it, and the sky-blue fabric was encrusted with food. The bloop of her stomach echoed the bulge of an adult diaper at the rear. Carter had grown accustomed to this decayed incarnation of his father's second wife, but fifteen years earlier the shock had been profound.

I'm a journalist, and journalists need news. Deprive them of it, and they go a bit barking. Deprive them of news long enough, and they'll make their own - much the way the starving will eventually turn to cannibalism.

I've found that people's generalizations are largely illuminating about themselves.

But one of the things you lose in the wisdom of age is the wisdom of youth. Education is not a steady process of accrual, but a touch-and-go contest between learning and forgetting, like frantically trying to fill a sink faster than it can empty through an open drain...

the small, humble offerings that couples proffer after foraging in separate backyards

You were nice to me for almost ten years," he said gruffly. "Why should that count for nothing just because it's not going to be eleven?

so i wasn't only afraid of becoming my mother, but a mother.

It was peculiar how the more you got to know someone, the more you grew to appreciate how little you knew, how little you had ever known- as if progressive intimacy didn't involve becoming more perceptive, but growing only more perfectly ignorant.

She had some appreciation for folks with a greed for sensation. Who were determined to "squeeze the orange" and press fresh experience from every day. But that way lay burnout. There were only so many experiences, really- a depressing discovery in itself., and surely you were better off trying to replicate the pleasing ones as often as possible.

the definition of the truly foreign locale is one that fosters a piercing and perpetual yearning to go home.

Slapping his shoulder was probably a mistake; he flinched. And for the briefest of moments I appreciated what little access we ever had to what really went on in Kevin's head, since for a second the mask fell, and his face curdled with - well, with revulsion, I'm afraid. To allow even so brief a glimpse of its workings, he must have had other things on his mind.

Why would I not know the context?" He took a single swallow from his glass. "I am the context." He put the glass on the counter, and left. I'm certain of it: that moment, that hard swallow, is when he decided.

This pervasive craving to be recognized as special amounted to an abdication of power, an outsourcing of your core responsibilities. I spurned the fawning of strangers, but I did feel special to myself. I had found that "feeling special" was a private experience, and no one else's projected fascination could substitute for quiet absorption in your own life.

Myself, after having not a child but this particular one, I couldn't see how anyone could claim to love children in the generic any more that anyone could credibly claim to love people in a sufficiently sweeping sense as to embrace Pol Pot, Don Rickles, and an upstairs neighbor who does 2,000 jumping jacks at three in the morning.

What possessed us? We were so happy! Why, then, did we take the stake of all we had and place it all on this outrageous gamble of having a child? Of course you consider the very putting of that question profane. Although the infertile are entitled to sour grapes, it's against the rules, isn't it, to actually have a baby and spend any time at all on that banished parallel life in which you didn't.

The right to boss pregnant women around was surely on its way into the Constitution