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.

Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.

Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.

All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.

The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.

When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.

I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.