Every year, when you're a child, you become a different person.

Few people, very few, have a treasure, and if you do you must hang onto it. You must not let yourself be waylaid, and have it taken from you.

The images, the language, of pornography, and romance are alike; monotonous and mechanically seductive, quickly leading to despair.

The complexity of things - the things within things - just seems to be endless. I mean nothing is easy, nothing is simple.

Because if she let go of her grief even for a minute it would only hit her harder when she bumped into it again.

And now such a warm commotion, such busy love.

There would never be any room in her for anything else. No room for anything but the realization of what she had done.