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.

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.

Every small town that I had ever been to had had a caboose.

The first book we fall in love with shapes us every bit as much as the first person we fall in love with.

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

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.

A great novelist excels on the small scale and the large, the individual leaf and root as well as the forest; good fiction convinces us that the imaginary is real by selecting exactly the right detail and rendering it perfectly.