I don't have the life of a famous person. But I do feel like I've been able to connect with a lot of people.

Their friendship was only one aspect of their lives but it seemed to give meaning to all the others.

Marnie loved her better and more honestly than anyone else in the world, with the possible exception of her mother, who loved her intensely if not honestly.

As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.

Ruins stood for what was lost, and yet there were beautiful-peaceful, historic, intellectual. Not tragic or regrettable. Lena tried to keep hers that way too, and she succeeded to some extent. Why not celebrate what you had rather than spend your time mourning its passing? There could be joy in things that ended.

There were certain qualities you possessed carelessly. And you couldn't retrieve them when they were gone. The very act of caring made them impossible to regain.

She had to have faith not just in trying but in failing. Was she strong enough to fail Was she strong enough not to