I feel like an old lady; my hero is Miss Marple.

There were days when he touched the tip of her nose and it was enough, a miracle of plenty.

I know of witches who whistle at different pitches, calling things that don't have names.

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.

Imagine having a mother who worries that you read too much. The question is, what is it that's supposed to happen to people who read too much? How can you tell when someone's crossed the line.

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.

Her heart was heavy because it was open, and so things filled it, and so things rushed out of it, but still the heart kept beating, tough and frighteningly powerful and meaning to shrug off the rest of her and continue on its own.