It's an illusion I've noticed before-- words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It only lasts while the words are in your head. After you put down the paper or pen, the pistons fall lifeless again.

I sometimes think young people are not given nearly enough credit for their ability to appreciate literary flourish.

It never occurred to him that now he was looking at his master, at the one person in all the world who held his fate right between her palms - me, in patched hand-me-downs and untrimmed hair and idiot smile - and that my hatred for him is pure and black and unforgiving. And that I don't believe in God, but if I did, if I did, it would be the God of Moses, angry and demanding and OUT FOR REVENGE.

Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it

We are a sensational team.

It's impossible to stall a Lizzie.

Hope is treacherous, but how can you live without it?