Part of the beauty of fiction is that we come alive in a body that we don't own.

Sometimes we just walk into something that is not for us at all. We pretend it is. We think we can shrug it off like a coat, but it's not a coat at all, it's more like another skin. [...] All I wanted was to make my life thrilling for a while: to take the oridinary objects of my days and make a different argument out of them, no obligations to my past.

She likes the people with the endurance to tolerate the drudge, the ones who know that pain is a requirement, not a curse.

He might have been naive, but he didn't care; he said he's rather die with his heart on his sleeve than end up another cynic.

We stumble on, thinks Jaslyn, bring a little noise into the silence, find in others the ongoing of ourselves. It is almost enough.

I write articles, and I do profiles of members of organizations and associations.

Even if you're going to die, you might as well die pretty.