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

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

All the world is made of music. We are all strings on a lyre. We resonate. We sing together.

Sooner or later a black car came for everyone.

Well. That's helpful. We'll put an APB out on the Gingerbread Man. I'm not hopeful it'll do us much good, though. Word on the street is you can't catch him.

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.

Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.