An author's life is different, complex, and ongoing, while a character's remains frozen in one little story.
I would never understand photography, the sneaky, murderous taxidermy of it.
I missed him. Love, I realized, was something your spine memorized. There was nothing you could do about that.
Surrealism could not be made up. It was the very electricity of the real.
Once love had seemed like magic. Now it seemed like tricks.
She was afraid, and the afraid, she realized, sought opportunities for bravery in love.