She smiled at him, with longing. 'Where do you live,' she asked, 'and how do I get there?

It is like having a book out from the library. It is like constantly having a book out from the library.

Every arrangement in life carried with it the sadness, the sentimental shadow, of its not being something else, but only itself.

Editing is just ongoing. I don't count drafts, or know what would fully constitute a draft. But I try to fix as I go. And there's always more to fix.

They had, finally, the only thing anyone really wants in life: someone to hold your hand when you die.

She hadn't been given the proper tools to make a real life with, she decided, that was it. She'd been given a can of gravy and a hairbrush and told, "There you go." -- Willing

Things between us were dissolving like an ice cub in a glass: the smaller it got, the faster it disappeared.