I'm at the point where going forward is easier than going back.

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

My grandmother was overwhelmed by what was happening to us. She ahd moved back into the past because the here and the now was too terrible.

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

The only people out at this hour were ones who couldn't sleep,those haunted by one thing or another:love thwarted, love lost, love thrown away. They were the sort of people who didn't want to be noticed, who wanted to slip through shadows, be alone with their despair.

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.

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