Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?

It is shaming sometimes how the body will not, or cannot, lie about emotions. Who, for decorum’s sake, has ever slowed his heart, or muted a blush?

She loved him, though not at this particular moment.

Something has happened, hasn't it? ... It's like being up close to something so large you don't even see it. Even now, I'm not sure I can. But I know it's there.

one could drown in irrelevance.

What reader wants to be told what attitude to strike?

...the world she ran through loved her and would give her what she wanted and would let it happen.