I hate it that she has so insinuated herself into the interstices of my mind that I can never root her out. And most of all, I hate that at the end of my life I feel compelled to ask, “How’d I do, Mama?”.

I hate it that she has so insinuated herself into the interstices of my mind that I can never root her out. And most of all, I hate that at the end of my life I feel compelled to ask, “How’d I do, Mama?”.

– Irvin D. Yalom –

Momma and the Meaning of Life: Tales of Psychotherapy

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