I think if you went back to the eighteenth century and you asked a fifteen year old boy, 'Would you like to marry a woman who has had plastic bags needlessly inserted into her breasts?', that fifteen year old boy would probably be like, 'what's plastic?'.

History doesn't have a curfew.

That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt.

As a child I was an inveterate liar. As opposed to now, I am a Novelist.

Margo's beauty was a kind of sealed vessel of perfection--uncracked and uncrackable.

Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.

Idiotically, it occurred to me that my pink underwear didn’t match my purple bra, as if boys even notice such things.