Men, she thought, were one of the world's few sure comforts, like a fire on a cold October night, like cocoa, like broken-in-slippers. Their clumsy affections, their bristly faces, and their willingness to do what needed to be done - cook an omelette, change lightbulbs, make with hugging - sometimes almost made being a woman fun.

Pick a sin we can both live with, is what I ask.

I am; I was. I want to be.

You loved me as hard as you knew how. I'd give anything to go back and love you better.

It was something... the way a person's life picked up speed, the way a life was like a bullet aimed at one final target, impossible to slow or turn aside, and like the bullet, you were ignorant of what you were going to hit, would never know anything except the rush and the impact.

Don't mourn, Organise

Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.