Aw, come on. I barely speak English, unless we're talking about the Lowcountry kind.

The good and the bad, the sugar and the salt, the kicks and the kisses—what’s come before and what will come after, you and me—

I guess that’s the thing about a hero’s journey. You might not start out a hero, and you might not even come back that way. But you change, which is the same as everything changing. The journey changes you, whether or not you know it, and whether or not you want it to.

Sunday night, I reread The Catcher in the Rye until I felt tired enough to fall asleep. Only I never got tired enough. And I couldn't read, because reading didn't feel the same.

There was no one color that could paint Lena Duchannes. She was a red sweater and a blue sky, a gray wind and a silver sparrow, a black curl escaping from behind her ear.

Hey Rid?" She stopped and turned to look at him, almost ruefully. Like she couldn't help what she was any more then a shark could help being a shark, but if she could... "Yeah, Shrinky Dink?" "You're not all bad." She looked right at him and almost smiled. "You know what they say. Maybe I'm just drawn that way.

There are lots of things we choose not to see. Doesn't mean they aren't there, even if we wish they weren't.