Things Happen and once they start happening you pretty much just to hold on for dear life and see where they drop you when they stop.

The imagination can be dangerous. It can change the world. And that is why we write.

I guess there was a war going on somewhere in the world that night but it wasn't one that could touch us.

And after awhile of this my brain and my body and every single inch of me that was alive was flooded with the feeling that I was starving, starving for Edmond. And what a coincidence, that was the feeling I loved best in the world.

It's not that he lacked poetry. But his poetry was of the body, not the mind. He spoke it in the way he moved, the way he held a hammer, rowed a boat, built a fire. I, on the other hand, was like a brain in a box, a beating heart in a coal scuttle.

The real truth is that the war didn't have much to do with it except that it provided a perfect limbo in which two people who were too young and too related could start kissing without anything or anyone making us stop.

After all this time, I know exactly where I belong.