I believed him. I was not stupid. I was his wife.

You only get to keep what you refuse to let go of.

I missed you even when I was with you. That’s been my problem. I miss what I already have, and I surround myself with things that are missing.

People around the world were moving from one place to another. No one was staying.

Reality Hunger is more than thought-provoking; it's one of the most beautiful books I've read in a long time.

I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?

The hardest part of writing is not to get the ideas but to remember, why it is important to get them.