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

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

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

Maybe all the schemes of the devil were nothing compared to what man could think up.

I hope if there is another world, we will not be judged too harshly for the things we did wrong here—that we will at least be forgiven for the mistakes we made out of love.

It bewildered Ig, the idea that a person could not be interested in music. It was like not being interested in happiness.

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