A girl can have the face of an angel but have a horrid sort of heart.

I don't know what it is, but I ache for it each day. It's as though I have eyes, but there are colors I cannot see. As though I have ears, but there's a range of notes I cannot hear.

When we were small, Rose and I used to play a game called connect the dots. I loved it. I loved drawing a line from dot number 1 to dot number 2 and so on. Most of all, I loved the moment when the chaotic sprinkle of dots resolved itself into a picture. That's what stories do. They connect the random dots of life into a picture. But it's all an illusion. Just try to connect the dots of life. You'll end up with a lunatic scribble.

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

How can something as fragile as a word build the whole world?

Perhaps you should put your head down.” I knew this was the thing to do, although I’ve never fainted and I don’t intend to.

Even a witch wants sympathy.