Burn me. Drown me. Tell me lies. I will still be who I am.

Love is worth the sum of itself, and nothing more.

I read Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," all of Shirley Jackson's books, which I loved.

The original fairy tale was about the youngest sister going into a room in the castle and finding all the bodies of the wives that came before her - she is confronted with truth, thinking about how often we think we know people and we really don't.

Young people believe that regret is something you will never feel if you simply do as you please, but sometimes it is a matter of degree.

What men yearn for they often destroy.

Certain things need not be said, and there’s nothing, not a whisper, prayer, not a sacrifice, not a payment of any price, that would change what’s about to happen.