without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
How many people ask you to come share their life?
She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.
I decided that if I was never going to sell anything as long as I lived, I might as well do what I want to do 'cause then at least I would've done what I wanted to do in life. What's that worth?