It was mint and memories and the past and the future and she felt as if she’d done this before and already she longed to do it again.

It's a strange thing, to be talked about instead of talked to.

More than anything, the journal wanted. It wanted more than it could hold, more than words could describe, more than diagrams could illustrate. Longing burst from the pages, in every frantic line and every hectic sketch and every dark-printed definition. There was something pained and melancholy about it.

It was nothing, but it was Adam Parrish's nothing. How he hated and loved it. How proud he was of it, how wretched it was.

That's a depressing and practical thought," Sam said. "I'd rather it was something magical.

I was suddenly overwhelmed by what an incredible person this boy was, standing in front of me, and by the fact that he was mine and I was his. "Right now," Sam said - and I saw that he held the invoice for today's studio time in his hand, folded into a bird with sun-washed wings - "it's hard to imagine that it is raining anewhere in the world." "From Linger, page 258

If she and Sam ever had kids, they'd be gluten-intolerant out of self-defence.