You could at least complain,” I say. “I adore complaining. It calms the nerves.

People think me a sort of Florence Nightingale, but I have no heroic qualities. I simply don’t feel very much.

I don't mean to be ungrateful but if someone's out there answering prayers, mine's not at the top of the list

This is what I want. I want people to take care of me. I want them to force comfort upon me. I want the soft-pillow feeling that I associate with memories of being ill when I was younger, soft pillows and fresh linens and satin-edged blankets and hot chocolate. It's not so much the comfort itself as knowing there's someone who wants to take care of you.

I don't like my shoes,' said Rose. 'I'm wearing my shoes and you don't see me complain.' 'You only hear a person complain,' said Rose. 'Not see.' How has Rose lived for seventeen years and no one has killed her, not once?

It’s one thing if a person learns you’re a witch. It’s quite another if he learns you’re a murderer. I almost forget I’m a witch now that I know I’m a murderer—murderess, actually. Murderess sounds so much worse.

I like rain and mist. I've never understood why people exclaim over bright skies and bushels of glaring sunshine.