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.

That's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.

Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.

The old Lena is dead.

Is it possible to tell the truth in a society of lies? Or must you always, of necessity, become a liar?

You must hurt, or be hurt.

You see, we didn't know.