On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.

Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine.

Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.

I just love historical fiction.

I could almost hear the characters inside, murmuring and jostling, impatient for me to open the cover and let them out.

Turn away. From the darkness, the madness, the pain. Open your eyes and look at the light.

There is only one thing I fear now-love. For I have seen it and I have felt it and I know that it is love, not death, that undoes us.