He believed in dreams, in endings that people told you could never happen, in disappointments reversed and luck that lasted.

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.

What did you see?' he asked then. Nothing,' I told him. 'Because nothing is what you wanted me to see, though the man on the table might disagree.

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

My grief was cold. It was nothing to share. It was nothing to speak about, nothing to feel.

All the characters in my books are imagined, but all have a bit of who I am in them - much like the characters in your dreams are all formed by who you are