I can hurt myself more than anyone else can, she told her sister. I can do it with my eyes closed.

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.

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

When I walk, I walk with you. Where I go, you're with me always.

I just finished Colson Whitehead's "The Underground Railroad," which I think is a work of genius.

I thought that love was a river, endless and deep. I thought it merely happened, washing over you like water. It was nothing to search for, nothing to force. I didn't understand that even when we can't control our fate, we alone have the last say in matters of the heart. We can give it freely, even in the worst of times, even when it isn't returned.

Being human means losing everything we love best in the world," she murmured as she released me. "But would you ask to be anything else?