This was a little house, with a ceiling that kept getting higher and higher, a hot place with no windows. This was anger.

Nobody ever warned me about mirrors, so for many years I was fond of them, and believed them to be trustworthy. . .

You don’t return people’s smiles—it’s perfectly clear to you that people can smile and smile and still be villains.

However awful the storm of my disappointment, it's a response that belongs to me. It's my heart, after all. My territory, my kingdom. And since I'm the only one with the authority to surrender it, I can also take it back.

If you should find yourself in a place that is indifferent to you and there is someone there that your spirit stretches to, then that person is kin.

I do tend to feel more connected to dead writers, perhaps because they have finished their work.

Solitary people, these book lovers. I think it's swell that there are people you don't have to worry about when you don't see them for a long time, you don't have to wonder what they do, how they're getting along with themselves. You just know that they're all right, and probably doing something they like.