That I have no right to be jealous is irrelevant. It is a human passion: the sick, white underbelly of love.

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.

In the time it takes for her to walk from the bathhouse at the seawall of Fortune's Rocks, where she has left her boots and has discreetly pulled off her stockings, to the waterline along which the sea continually licks the pink and silver sand, she learns about desire.

Love is never as ferocious as when you think it's going to leave you.

A single action can cause a life to veer off in a direction it was never meant to go.

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.

love is ... something extraordinary that happens to ordinary people.