She knew that when she got old it would be more fun to look back on a life of romance and adventure than a life of quiet habits. But looking back was easy. It was the doing that was painful. There were plenty of things she would like to look back on but wasn't willing to risk.

You'll turn out ordinary if you're not careful.

She must have sensed she never really had him. That was a sadness of hers, he knew.

Healing wasn’t always the best thing. Sometimes a hole was better left open. Sometimes it healed too thick and too well and left separate pieces fused and incompetent. And it was harder to reopen after that.

She used to cry roughly three times a year. Now she seemed to cry three times before breakfast. Could that be considered progress?

I sometimes think the stronger you feel about someone, the harder it is to picture their face when you are away from them.

Sometimes you couldn’t face the sadness of being forgotten until you felt the comfort of being remembered again.