I have never kept diaries. I just remember a lot and am more self-centered than most people.

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

One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk.

Luck took me right out of myself - I read it in one gulp, and it never let me down. Sharp and surprising but always responsible, no tricks for tricks' sake; so satisfying, with its shifting and puzzles. So much fiction turns out to be diversion, in spite of fancy claims, and doesn't really look at anything. Well - this does.

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

I read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same.

She would live now, not read.