I know who you are in your heart,' Andres said. 'That's all that matters.' And that was it. That was the moment. Now I knew how I would feel if I ever lost him. That was how you knew love. My mother had told me that. All you had to do was imagine your life without the other person, and if the thought alone made you shiver, then you knew.

She was disappearing a little more each day, so thin, so frail, a wisp of smoke. One day she would surely vanish altogether, and there was no way to stop her.

You can't dispute the ridiculous. You can't argue reasonably with evil.

Fairytales were maps formed of blood and hair and bones; they were the knots of the sub-conscious unwound. Every word in every tale was real and as true as apples and stones. They all led to the story inside the story.

Crying wasn't like riding a bike. Give it up, and you quickly forget how it's done.

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

I always felt and still feel that fairy tales have an emotional truth that is so deep that there are few things that really rival them