When all is said and done, the weather and love are the two elements about which one can never be sure.

Sally...can no longer think of love as a reality, or even as a possibility, however remote.

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

No one knows how to write a novel until it's been written

The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep.

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.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder if it was a mistake for people like us to be tied to a place. If we weren't meant to be ready and willing to wander. If everything we needed was contained in who we were. And what we remember.