He was in love, and people in that condition did stupid, unfathomable things. They were all flawed, every single one.

Love was like rain: it turned into ice, or it disappeared. Now you saw it, now you couldn't find it no matter how hard you might search. Love evaporated; obsession was realer; it hurt, like a pin in your bottom, a stone in your shoe. It didn't go away in the blink of an eye. A morning phone call filled with regret. A letter that said, Dear you, good-bye from me. Obsession tasted like something familiar. Something you'd known your whole life. It settled and lurked; it stayed with you.

I'm much faster now. When you only have a certain amount of time to write, after a while you learn to use your time well or you stop writing

I knew what it was to yearn for a life so distant it seemed that it had never been anything more than a dream.

You can be betrayed in your sleep. The whole world can tilt while you're dreaming of butterflies.

I read Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," all of Shirley Jackson's books, which I loved.

The evening had turned sweet and blue.