Literature duplicates the experience of living in a way that nothing else can, drawing you so fully into another life that you temporarily forget you have one of your own. That is why you read it, and might even sit up in bed till early dawn, throwing your whole tomorrow out of whack, simply to find out what happens to some people who, you know perfectly well, are made up.

she's never forgotten, either, how a mystery caught in the hand could lose its grace

Science doesn't tell us what we should do. It only tells us what is.

Ah, the mysterious croak. Here today, gone tomorrow. It's the best reason I can think of to throw open the blinds and risk belief. Right now, this minute, time to move out into the grief and glory. High tide.

There was a roaring in my ears and I lost track of what they were saying. I believe it was the physical manifestation of unbearable grief.

She kept swimming out into life because she hadn't yet found a rock to stand on.

Every betrayal contains a perfect moment, a coin stamped heads or tails with salvation on the other side.