I was sand, I was snow—written on, rewritten, smoothed over.

There would be no Sherlock Holmes if it were not for serial publication.

I'll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I'll make you me.

I tell, therefore you are.

Publishing a book is like stuffing a note into a bottle and hurling it into the sea. Some bottles drown, some come safe to land, where the notes are read and then possibly cherished, or else misinterpreted, or else understood all too well by those who hate the message. You never know who your readers might be.

After everything that's happened, how can the world still be so beautiful? Because it is.

I don't find the idea of sewing degrading. A thing is degrading when you are forced to do it, through economic reasons or through slavery or some other form of compulsion.