To ward off a feeling of failure, she joked that she could wallpaper her bathroom with rejection slips, which she chose not to see as messages to stop, but rather as tickets to the game.

And she thought then how strange it was that disaster--the sort of disaster that drained the blood from your body and took the air out of your lungs and hit you again and again in the face--could be at times, such a thing of beauty.

I guess that's the point of drinking, to take all the feelings and thoughts and morals away until you are just a body doing what a body will do.

Among other things, Kathryn knew, grief was physically exhausting.

Is imagination dependent upon experience, or is experience influenced by imagination?

the enduring struggle to capture in words the infinite possibilities of a life not lived.

I wonder this: If you take a woman and push her to the edge, how will she behave?