It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.

I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.

The day was gray, the color of Europe.

All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

I'm gonna hunt my life down and grab it.

His eyes were cold and brown - like coffee stains.

Is there cowardice with the acknowledgement of fear?