that since Cecilia’s suicide, the Lisbon’s could hardly wait for the night to forget themselves in sleep

It was amazing how it worked: the tiniest bit of truth made credible the greatest lies.

There's a kind of acting that goes on in my head when I'm writing a character where I put myself in their place.

Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness", "joy", or "regret". Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that is oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions.

A seven-year-old girl can take only so many walks with her grandfather.

I always work in a room where there's no Internet to keep from being distracted so easily.

What are you doing here, honey? You're not even old enough to know how bad life gets." (...) "Obviously, Doctor," she said, "you've never been a thirteen-year-old girl.