I saw the end of his life right there in that single moment. His pride, his decency, his secrets, his death.

Sometimes they would sit in the parlor together, both reading – in entirely separate worlds, to be sure, but joined somehow. When this happened, other people in the family couldn't bring themselves to disturb them. All that could be heard in the parlor was the sound of pages, turning.

I never plot out my novels in terms of the tone of the book. Hopefully, once a story is begun it reveals itself

I loved him even now, as he took a knife to my throat, as I drowned in blood, as I whispered "Cousin, you were wrong. We were born to live.

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.

Remember what I've told you. Remember me.

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