All true readers have a book, a moment when real life is never going to be able to compete with fiction again.

Nighttime is different. Things are otherwise when the world is black. Insecurities and hurts, anxieties and fears grow teeth at night. p493

It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.

In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.

Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.

Rejection is a cancer, Edie. It eats away at a person.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.