Love was action. It came to you. It was not a choice.

Time has a funny way of collapsing when you go back to a place you once loved. You find yourself thinking, I was kissed in that building, I climbed up that tree.

She sang as if she was saving the life of every person in the room.

I am a totally public person.

You can't be a jerk in order to be a good writer.

There was such an incredible logic to kissing, such a metal-to-magnet pull between two people that it was a wonder that they found the strength to prevent themselves from succumbing every second. Rightfully, the world should be a whirlpool of kissing into which we sank and never found the strength to rise up again.

Happiness compresses time, makes it dense and bright, pocketsized.