Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

I like that every page in every book can have a gem on it. It's probably what I love most about writing--that words can be used in a way that's like a child playing in a sandpit, rearranging things, swapping them around. They're the best moments in a day of writing -- when an image appears that you didn't know would be there when you started work in the morning.

Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. "I'm okay" we say. "I'm alright". But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can't get it off. That's when you realize that sometimes it isn't even an answer--it's a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.

In years to come, he would be a giver of bread, not a stealer - proof again of the contradictory human being. So much good, so much evil. Just add water.

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.