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.

Each letter has a shape, she told them, one shape in the world and no other, and it is your responsibility to make it perfect.

This was her life. Not the life she had once dreamed of, not a life her younger self would ever have imagined or desired, but the life she was living, with all its complexities. This was her life, built with care and attention, and it was good.

Its impossible to control the reception of your work - the only thing you can control is the experience of writing itself, and the work you create.

Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.

It wasn't right. He knew that, but it was like falling: once you started you couldn't stop until something stopped you.

His love for her was so deeply woven with resentment that he could not untangle the two.