We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.

True joy is a profound remembering; and true grief the same.

Writing about the unholy is one way of writing about what is sacred.

I'm a great dog fanatic. My own dog died a little while ago and I take it very personally when things die-it's a major offence.

If you want to look like the people next door, you're probably smothering yourself into your dreams.

Perhaps sunlight had always been luminous, and doorways signs of greater passage than that of one room to another. But she’d not noticed it until now.

Whatever capacity she possesses to supernaturally beguile a human soul—and she possesses many—she liked his clear-sightedness too well, to blind him that way.