Make no mistake, the woman had a heart. She had a bigger one that people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit night.

Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.

in the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

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.

...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.