Margaret thought of all she knew for certain, that day would always follow night that love was never wasted nor was it lost.

When the cold comes to New England it arrives in sheets of sleet and ice. In December, the wind wraps itself around bare trees and twists in between husbands and wives asleep in their beds. It shakes the shingles from the roofs and sifts through cracks in the plaster. The only green things left are the holly bushes and the old boxwood hedges in the village, and these are often painted white with snow. Chipmunks and weasels come to nest in basements and barns; owls find their way into attics. At night,the dark is blue and bluer still, as sapphire of night.

Good fortune can take forever to get to you, but as it turns out, sorrow is as quick as a shot.

If we had paid attention, we would have understood there are some things in this world you cannot outrun.

You can be betrayed in your sleep. The whole world can tilt while you're dreaming of butterflies.

I think love is a huge factor in fiction and in real life. Is there a risk? Always. In fiction and in life

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