But to be perfectly frank, this childish idea that the author of a novel has some special insight into the characters in the novel ... it's ridiculous. That novel was composed of scratches on a page, dear. The characters inhabiting it have no life outside of those scratches. What happened to them? They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended.

Indiana,’ he said. ‘They steal the land from the Indians and leave the name, yes?

That tastes like hope feels.

A Margo for each of us--and each more mirror than window.

I'm not embarrassed by my faith, and I'm also not embarrassed by my doubt.

Maybe all the strings inside him broke.

You matter as much as the things that matter to you do.