Beneath all of her thoughts and worries, beneath the complication of conflicting identities and needs, maybe it's as simple as loving the way some other person looks when they're sleeping.

When she cries, it is quiet, tearless, almost completely imperceptible: one more unheard prayer.

The boy detective thinks, The only thing all men have in common with one another is their inherent capacity to make mistakes. He reasons, But there is wonder in the attempt, knowing we are all destined to fall short, but forgoing reason and fear time and time again so deliberately.

The city glitters past us with its sharp edges, reminding us of how tiny, how weak, how totally unimportant we are.

An act of evil is the death of wonder

I'm kind of interested in learning to learn and grow and challenge myself. I think I've been very fortunate in that my books are pretty different from one novel to the next. There's a lot of things that are similar but in terms of tone and the scale and how they interact with history and just the different styles as well.

Sex scenes in books are always like first person, from this male perspective and just about how awesome he is. It feels like such a fantasy.