she was such a bad actress. she never said her lines rite, it was something perverse in her nature. and wat was her line anyway?

Her fingers moved among barnacles and mussels, blue-black, sharp-edged. Neon red starfish were limp Dalis on the rocks, surrounded by bouquets of stinging anemones and purple bursts of spiny sea urchins.

And if there is no god? You act as if there is, and it's the same thing.

It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.

Wasn't that the way it always was? You didn't know, you couldn't tell, you just let it happen... Perhaps they didn't know themselves. Sometimes the line was very fine.

The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.

A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.