The nature of love had totally escaped her until now. She had thought that if you lost it, you could never get it back, like a stone thrown down a well. But it was like the water at the bottom of the well, there when you can't even see it, shifting in the dark.

What men yearn for they often destroy.

At midnight the wind in the tress can sound like the ocean. The moonlight can make a road appear as endless as the sea.

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

Some stories stayed with you even when you wanted to forget them.

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 "The Group" by Mary McCarthy. It had tons of sex in it, or so I thought at the time.