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

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.

It seemed there was no end at all to the lies a person could tell, once she got started.

The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?

You can't spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around to try and avert disaster. It won't work. You'll just end up missing the life you have.

Photography is all about secrets... The secrets we all have and will never tell.

It's good to be in love.