She liked things that had been written by people who had lived short, ugly, and tragic lives. Or, who at least, were English.

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'll take the shooting. I'm used to that. I've been shot a few times in the past, and I guess I can stand it, again.

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

Terror is the desire to save your own ass, but horror is rooted in sympathy.

I remember an era when you could get your nose sliced off for sticking it too far into another man's business. Now you can find out anything about anyone with the click of a button. There is no privacy and no consideration, and everyone is prying into things that aren't their affair. You can probably check on the intertube and find out what color underwear I have on today.

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