Oh, God. What was happening to her, she was turning into a normal person.

If you don't have a unique voice, then you're not really a writer.

Sometimes,' Sylvie said, 'one can mistake gratitude for love.

Ursula craved solitude but she hated loneliness, a conundrum that she couldn’t even begin to solve.

I was on the verge of something numinous and profound and in one more second the universe was going to crack open and arcana would rain down on my head like grace and all the cosmic mysteries were going to be revealed.

When you chopped logs with the ax and they split open they smelled beautiful, like Christmas. But when you split someone's head open it smelled like abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you'd cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already another life.

Life wasn't about becoming, was it? It was about being.