Quotes from Kate Christensen

Thank God for my hobgoblin, small-minded consistency...

I scrambled to pack my things, glad I owned so little.

Everything that has ever happened to me is still all with me.

Let nothing human be foreign to me

odalisque, prompting us to call him Dingolion and Dandelingo

I worked at home, all by myself. Of course, I had Dingo, but a dog just doesn't cut it in the blue hour.

But sometimes, if I start to picture what's downstairs in the kitchen cupboards and fridge and those bowls on the counter, and try to piece everything together in a series of interesting meals and fill in any gaps with a mental grocery list, it turns into a fun, riveting game so engaging I forget what a horrible person I am and fixate instead on the far more relevant question of what I plan to cook and eat in the near future.

And Dan, who had maintained all during our schism that we were both insane, welcomed me back as if nothing had ever happened, still his same warm, laconic, wry self.

Sugary things were restricted; candy was limited, and the only cereals we got were Cheerios, corn flakes, and wholesome hot cereals. Pop (as we called it in Arizona) was out of the question; we drank nothing but milk, water, and juice in our house. Of course, out-and-out junk food like Cheetos and Pop-Tarts was never allowed.

My mother was a cook of the plain, simple, homey variety, which was perfect for our undeveloped palates. She wasn't a puritan or a health nut, but she greatly cared what we ate and took pains to serve us good meals every night. Sometimes, when she dished up one of her typical home-cooked dinners, and we told her how good it was and asked for seconds, she would say half joking, "Aw, it's nothing but a blue plate special!

I'd thought I had recovered for good from that sadness, but as I felt my marriage disintegrate, the memory of my raw yearning for babies and my husband's refusal to have them with me came back to me as part of the reason I was now leaving him. It felt like the heart of why I was so lonely with him.

you're doing the same thing I am, only more slowly, and less honestly. You drive a car; you use plastic products; you do whatever the hell you do knowing full well that it's contributing to the end of everyone, and a lot of other animals besides. So don't get all more-life-affirming-than-thou with me, missy, you're on your way out too. In a way, you could see me as he canary down a mine shaft, or maybe synecdoche, the small part representing the whole.

I wanted to live in a clean, renovated Victorian house full of books, not a rough-hewn, unfinished industrial loft. I wanted to raise bright, good kids, to write bright, good novels in a quiet study, to cook wholesome meals and listen to Bach. He wanted to play loud amplified music, sleep late, drink tequila, and travel. It seemed to me that we didn't want to be the people we'd married each other for.

that old unfulfilled craving became an obsession I couldn't escape, a black hole of raw grief I kept falling deeper into. 'Where are my children?' I felt their absence and loss as if they existed somewhere I couldn't reach, as if they were stuck forever on the other side of a membrane and I could never access them.

She was fierce and opaque, and not breakable.

Still, she would rather be on the lookout, sharp, overreacting, than to be caught asleep and dull-witted. When the bomb came to rip her apart, she would at least see it coming. She wanted to die on her toes if she had to die at all.

When I'm writing about myself, I write out of a strong urge not to protect myself. When I feel ego or self justification or defensiveness creeping in or a wish to make myself look better than I was, I squelch it, if I can. It takes vigilance. Exposing myself is the only way to go, though. If I'd rather wear veils, I should write fiction.

I have always felt loneliest in the presence of other people. People I can't connect with. People I feel unseen by. People who make me feel insincere or uncomfortable. For me, loneliness comes from a sense of missing something. I never miss anything when I'm alone.

I had still wanted a baby - two, actually - and I still trusted the authenticity of my earlier yearning

I have always felt loneliest in the presence of other people—people I can't connect with, people I feel unseen by, people who make me feel insincere or uncomfortable. For me, loneliness comes from a sense of missing something. I never miss anything when I'm alone.

I've cooked plenty of meals when I was sad, lonely, depressed, angry, bored, and/or under the weather. My primary aim in these circumstances is generally to cheer myself up, to fill my stomach with something warm so I can feel comforted and fed, usually just with a quick soup or an omelet.

I left New York in 2009 when I fell in love with someone who had a farmhouse in New Hampshire... Portland, Maine, felt like the inevitable place for us.

I think there's a part of my brain where food, language, and memory all intersect, and it's really powerful. I think I'm not alone in this.

Nostalgia is a powerful drug. Under its influence, ordinary songs take on dimensions and powers, like emotional superheroes.