Janice used to say that instinct was reason in a hurry; I was not so sure about the reason part.

Everything we say is a story. But nothing we say is just a story.

Only weak men want women to be weak.

I did not know my soul until I saw it's reflection in your eyes.

By the time we left college, I had become my own image: a dandelion in the flower bed of society. Kinda cute, but still a weed.

Was I insane? Maybe. But then, there were many different kinds of insanity. Aunt Rose had always taken for granted that the whole world was in a state of constantly fluctuating madness, and that a neurosis was not an illness, but a fact of life, like pimples. Some have more, some have less, but only truly abnormal people have none at all. This commonsense philosophy had consoled me many times before, and it did now, too.

A novel is, hopefully, the starting point of a conversation, one in which the author engages readers and asks that they see things from a different point of view than they might otherwise.