The silence was part of the story I wanted to tell.

Women writers have been told, forever, that our stories were not valuable. Not as valuable as men's stories about wars, business, power.

I believe every one of us possesses a fundamental right to tell our own story.

At Home in the World is the story of a young woman, raised in some difficult circumstances, and how she survives. It tells a story of redemption, not victimhood.

I believed my story would be helpful to young women my daughter's age, who are still in the process of forming themselves as women, and in need of encouragement to remain true to themselves.

For 25 years, I did take my responsibilities as a pleaser of others sufficiently seriously.

A person who deserves my loyalty receives it.

The vehemence with which certain critics have chosen not simply to criticize what I've written, but to challenge my writing this story at all, speaks of what the book is about: fear of disapproval.

If a man wishes to truly not be written about, he would do well not to write letters to 18-year-old girls, inviting them into his life.

Long after Salinger sent me away, I continued to believe his standards and expectations were the best ones.

My job is writing. I get paid to do it. When was the last time you heard someone challenge a doctor for making money off of cancer?

The painter who feels obligated to depict his subjects as uniformly beautiful or handsome and without flaws will fall short of making art.

Nothing like being visible, publishing one's work, and speaking openly about one's life, to disabuse the world of the illusion of one's perfection and purity.

I compromised my ability to tell my story, at the most basic level.

Not only did I avoid speaking of Salinger; I resisted thinking about him. I did not reread his letters to me. The experience had been too painful.

It is not the task of a reader to please her subjects.

I continued to protect him with my silence.

The silence was part of the story I wanted to tell.

Many women my age have known the experience of giving up crucial parts of themselves to please the man they love.

If I told you about all the stories I don't tell, I would be violating the very boundaries I set for myself.

Some literary types subscribe to the notion that being a writer like Salinger entitles a person to remain free of the standards that might apply to mere mortals.

I have long observed that the act of writing is viewed, by some, as an elite and otherworldly act, all the more so if a person isn't paid for what she writes.

The portrait of my parents is a complicated one, but lovingly drawn.

To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller, but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it.

I wonder what it is that the people who criticize me for telling this story truly object to: is it that I have dared to tell the story? Or that the story turns out not to be the one they wanted to hear?

It's not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself.

Teach a child to play solitaire, and she'll be able to entertain herself when there's no one around. Teach her tennis, and she'll know what to do when she's on a court. But raise her to feel comfortable in nature, and the whole planet is her home.

Although Salinger had long since cut me out of his life completely and made it plain that he had nothing but contempt for me, the thought of becoming the object of his wrath was more than I felt ready to take on.

A good home must be made, not bought. In the end, it's not track lighting or a sun room that brings light into a kitchen.

Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I can only remember knowing one child, ever, whose parents got a divorce, and hardly any whose mother 'worked' at anything besides raising her children.

I do not outline. There are writers I know and count as my friends who certainly do it the other way, but for me, part of the adventure is not knowing how it's going to turn out.

I think of myself as a realistic writer, not a creator of soap opera or melodrama.

I was giving a speech one time, and the woman who introduced me said, 'Well, she used to be J. D. Salinger's girlfriend. I thought, 'God, is that all I've been?' I didn't want to be reduced to that.

The big dramas that fascinate me are the quiet ones that happen behind closed doors in so-called ordinary families.

There is a theme that runs through my work, and that is: the toxic property of keeping secrets.

Those who rhapsodize about the ease and joy of childhood have perhaps forgotten what it's like to be 12 years old.

When people ask what I write about, that's what I tell them: 'The drama of human relationships.' I'm not even close to running out of material.

You write about what you know, and you write about what you want to know.

A good home must be made not bought.

A sudden silence in the middle of a conversation suddenly brings us back to essentials: it reveals how dearly we must pay for the invention of speech.

The intellectual debility of contemporary conservatism is indicated by its silence on all important matters.

Music is the silence between the notes.

We will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

I think the cinema you like has more to do with silence, and the theater you like has more to do with language.

Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation.

When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.

Silence is the sure sign that you're on your way out in Hollywood.

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

Choose silence of all virtues, for by it you hear other men's imperfections, and conceal your own.