Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.

But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. It's unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything I've ever known.

Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.

You have a way of looking at things. You make it seem as though everything's going to be okay. I can't imagine a more dangerous thing to have than hope like yours.

Even things that aren't broken can be fixed.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

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.