There is a pair of snakes who have learned to drive a car so recklessly that they would run you over in the street and never stop to apologize.

So she loved him. She just did immediately and again often and clearly naturally and soundly and obviously and many others.

The burning of a book is a sad, sad sight, for even though a book is nothing but ink and paper, it feels as if the ideas contained in the book are disappearing as the pages turn to ashes and the cover and binding--which is the term for the stitching and glue that holds the pages together--blacken and curl as the flames do their wicked work. When someone is burning a book, they are showing utter contempt for all of the thinking that produced its ideas, all of the labor that went into its words and sentences, and all of the trouble that befell the author . . .

How wrong to think I was anyone else, like thinking grass stains make you a beautiful view, like getting kissed makes you kissable, like feeling warm makes you coffee, like liking movies makes you a director. How utterly incorrect to think it any other way, a box of crap is treasures, a boy smiling means it, a gentle moment is a life improved.

I’d ruin any day, all my days, for those long nights with you, and I did.

I started making plans, thinking we would get that far.

who would dare think that, forever? Some idiot girl who wouldn’t know how things played out.