When my daughter tells me a secret her hands get very busy. She takes my arm, grabs me by my blouse, pulls me close, pulls me into her life. She knows how intimate secrets are. She likes to tell me things before she goes to sleep. Secrets are an exalted state, almost a dream state. They are a way of arresting motion, stopping the world so we can see ourselves in it. My daughter is generous with secrets. I wish she weren't, frankly. Don't secrets sustain her, keep her separate, make her self-aware? How can she know who she is if she gives away her secrets?