He shifted over without comment, lifting the blankets, and I scrambled into the warm sheets beside him. He smelled like soap and sleep and bare skin. He smelled familiar. Not the deja vu familiar of Guy or Mel. Familiar like...the ache in your chest of homesickness, of longing for harbor after weeks of rough seas or craving a fire's warmth after snow--or wanting back something you should never have given away.

Vintage books, old china, antiques; maybe I love old things so much because I feel impermanent myself.

I think it was Mark Twain who said, “Get your facts straight, and then you can distort them as much as you like.

All cynics are disappointed idealists. The more stars in the eyes, the harder the fall.

I thought again how odd it was to be on formal terms with someone you had once permitted to lick your ears.

Hearts got broken every day. Nobody died from that. But it did kind of fade the sunlight and drain the color from the days.

The problem with a life spent reading is you know too much.