You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.

The priests and the scientists are right about one thing: At our heart, at our base, we are no better than animals.

Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.

I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.

Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that-what we felt, what it meant- that's done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.

One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.

Grief is like sinking, like being buried.