In some deep place in her heart, Caroline had kept alive the silly romantic notion that somehow David Henry had once known her as no one else ever could. But it was not true. He had never even glimpsed her.

Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea.

You can't stop time. You can't capture light. You can only turn your face up and let it rain down.

A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.

The Lake of Dreams grew gradually, over many years, elements and ideas accruing until they gained enough critical mass to become a novel.

She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

A moment might be a thousand different things.