and she had succeeded, on the second try, in hurling herself out of the world

She may have looked normal on the outside, but once you'd seen her handwriting you knew she was deliciously complicated inside.

Just like ice, lives crack, too. Personalities. Identities.

Scars crossed her welded wrists.

She'd become an English major for the purest and dullest of reasons: because she loved to read.

The Pulitzer Prize is an idea; it's a vote of confidence. Like literature, it exists purely in the mind.

Their desire was silent yet magnificent, like a thousand daisies attuning their faces toward the path of the sun.