I thought research would be more glamorous, somehow. I'd give the librarian a secret code word and he'd give me the one book I needed and whisper the necessary page numbers. Like a speakeasy. With books.

It isn't that we do what we want. It's that we're allowed to want at all.

I wish to live for myself. I should never want to be trapped.

I invited myself. Thought this table needed some class.

You set fire to my house, killed my family, and ate my dog. But steal my boyfriend? That's a step too far.

We're all strangers connected by what we reveal, what we share, what we take away--our stories. I guess that's what I love about books--they are thin strands of humanity that tether us to one another for a small bit of time, that make us feel less alone or even more comfortable with our aloneness, if need be.

They misspelled 'party.' How evil genius can they be?