My grandmother was overwhelmed by what was happening to us. She ahd moved back into the past because the here and the now was too terrible.

I heard a sigh, as though the books were breathing. I felt that this was where I belonged. This was where I lived.

I feel as if when you love a book it becomes a part of you whether you have it on your shelves or not.

No one knows you like a person with whom you've shared a childhood. No one will ever understand you in quite the same way.

It wasn't right to have someone charge into you your world without even asking, acting as if you were nothing more than an egg to be flipped and flopped, sunny-side up or scrambled, depending on the whims on whoever ran your life..._

That was the way love was, invisible, there whether or not you wanted to see it or admit to it.

The best way to die is when your living