That is the joy of reading fiction: when all is said and done, the novel belongs to the reader and his or her imagination.

This day is going to be awful. It's the sort of day you wouldn't mind losing completely, even if it meant your life would be twenty-four hours shorter.

Once you know some things, you can't unknow them. It's a burden that can never be given away.

Perhaps it is possible to discover more in silence than in speech. Or perhaps it is only that those who are silent among us learn to listen.

It's not finding what's lost, it's understanding what you've found.

They weren't true stories; they were better than that.

Always keep mint on your windowsill in August, to ensure that buzzing flies will stay outside, where they belong. Don't think the summer is over, even when roses droop and turn brown and the stars shift position in the sky. Never presume August is a safe or reliable time of the year.