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.

I will die like a true-blue rebel. Don't waste any time in mourning - organize.

She just knew that even when you had nothing, you still had love.

Work and pray, live on hay, youll get pie in the sky when you die.

It was like wondering how evil had come into the world or what happens to a person after he dies: an interesting philosophical exercise, but also curiously pointless, since evil and death happened, regardless of the why and the how and what-it-meant.

You can't let facts get in the way of the truth.

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