All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.

...For grace may only be found briefly, and always in the midst of madness.

You cannot escape where you come from, September. Some part of it remains inside you always, like the slender white heart in the center of the thickest onion.

Snow is the beginning and the end of everything.

Koschei, Koschei,” she whispered. “What would I have been if I had never seen the birds? I am no one; I am nothing. I am a blank paper on which you and your magic wrote a girl. Just the kind of girl you wanted, all hungry and hurt and needing. A machine for loving you. Nothing in me was not made by you.

Fierce was her needle, and she wore it like a sword.

All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.