Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.

Her mind is a bird that's trapped inside her skull, flapping and thrashing, never breaking free.

I wanted to be rid of him," he says. He raises my chin with his thumb. "But not if it meant being rid of you. I climbed in beside you, and you put your head in my lap. You can't think I would have left you like that." "Look what it got you," I say. "Tea in bed and you here in front of me," he says. "It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.

There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.

The madness of youth made me unafraid.

I don’t have too many books, I have too little shelving.