The weird thing about houses is that they almost always look like nothing is happening inside of them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wondered if that was sort of the point of architecture.

She would stay on the road and in hiding, a balloon floating through the sky, eating up hundreds of miles a day with a help of the perpetual tailwind.

A novel is a conversation between a reader and a writer.

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

I hated hurting him. Most of the time, I could forget about it, but the inexorable truth is this: They might be glad to have me around, but I was the alpha and the omega of my parents' suffering.

I love you' really is the gateway drug of breaking up.

It's not fair," I said. "It's just so goddamned unfair." "The world," he said, "is not a wishgranting factory.