Perfect love was that kind of love that made no sense but made everything else make sense somehow. It was raw and unscripted, turbulent and slightly unpredictable.

There is a perfect someone, even if the road to that someone isn’t all that perfect.

Maybe everything really does just have an expiration date--one that you can't see until she tells you she's leaving, and then she's gone.

It was a completely new feeling for me–like someone had just released a million, tiny butterflies loose in my stomach, and they were feverishly flying up into my head and making me lose my mind.

The relationship between book and reader is intimate, at best a kind of love affair, and first loves are famously tenacious. [...] First love is a momentous step in our emotional education, and in many ways, it shapes us forever.

People like to complain about the state of contemporary literature, but I can only assume they don't read it very widely.

Fire will burn any human body it touches, and starvation will waste it, but stories are not so predictable in their effects.