But later that day, the streets of Kweilin were strewn with newspapers reporting great Kuomintang victories, and on top of these papers, like fresh fish from a butcher, lay rows of people - men, women and children who had never lost hope, but had lost their lives instead.

Sure I loved him - too much. And he loved me, only not enough. I just want someone who thinks I'm number one in his life. I'm not willing to accept emotional scraps anymore.

Writing what you wished was the most dangerous form of wishful thinking.

I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control.

I have loved works of fiction precisely for their illusions, for the author's sleight-of-hand in showing me the magic, what appeared in the right hand but not in the left.

I can never remember things I didn't understand in the first place.

Why do some memories live only on your tongue or in your nose? Why do others always stay in your heart?