Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.

Remember...we don't see objects, we see light. [...] Light can do anything water can do--flow, wash, trickle. It can do anything an artist can do--paint, burnish, carve. Candlelight falls, licks a face. There is always light in a room.

She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.

Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.

...I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn't come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them and then changed their minds.

Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.

For she is my love, and other women are but big bodies of flame.