If time heals all wounds, and a book can hold a person's entire life, then you can speed up the process with a pulp time warp.

We are all a volume on a shelf of a library, a story unto ourselves, never possibly described with one word or even very accurately with thousands. A person is never as quiet or unrestrained as they seem, or as bad or good, as vulnerable or as strong, as sweet or as fiesty; we are thickly layered, page upon lying page, behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book itself, but the binding. It can rip us apart or hold us together.

You can hold a secret, hold it so far in that it drives nearly every thought and every move you make- your very heartbeat, almost.

The loneliness you feel with another person, the wrong person, is the loneliest of all.

I don’t know why we do it. But sometimes we just swim straight for the net.

I grow green beans in my garden. The one thing I know about harvesting them is that you need to train your eyes to see the beans. At first it all looks like leaves, until you see one bean and then another and another. If you want clarity, too, you have to look hard. You have to look under things and look from different angles. You'll see what you need to when you do that. A hundred beans, suddenly.

I felt a constant, low-flying desperation, the kind you feel when you are trying, trying, trying to get something you will never, ever get.