“That’s why I can’t say enough times, whatever love you can get and give, whatever happiness you can filch or provide, every temporary measure of grace, whatever works. And don’t kid yourself, it’s by no means all up to your own human ingenuity. A bigger part of your existence is luck than you’d like to admit. Christ, you know the odds of your father’s one sperm from the billions, finding the single egg that made you? Don’t think about it, you’ll have a panic attack.”

Whatever Works


“-I see everything so clearly now. Everything! I married you for all the wrong reasons.

-What’s that supposed to mean?

-You’re brilliant. I wanted someone to talk to. You loved classical music, you loved art, you loved literature. You loved sex! You loved me!

-Those sound like pretty good reasons to me!

-Yes! Exactly! That’s the problem! That’s the problem! It was rational, it made sense!

-I don’t know what went wrong. When you examine it, there is so much right about us.

-On paper we’re ideal. But life isn’t on paper.”

Whatever Works

“If I have to eat nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day to live, I don’t want to live. I hate goddamn fruits and vegetables. And your omega-3’s and the treadmill and the cardiogram and the mammogram and the pelvic sonogram and, oh, my God, the colonoscopy! And with it all, the day still comes when they put you in a box and it’s on to the next generation of idiots who’ll also tell you all about life and define for you what’s appropriate.”

Whatever Works