It's a strange sensation to live inside another person's life, to wonder all the time what he is doing, or thinking or feeling.

I guess the difference between Gin and me is that when Gin got shut in the barn she thought Edmond didn't love her anymore but because I could feel Edmond out there somewhere always loving me I didn't have to howl all night.

I felt a momentary urge to leap into the sea and swim free of the present.

She frowned at him. 'You are in love with solitude.' 'Is there a better cure for the world than solitude?

I can't even trust my own imaginary dog. How much lower can a person get?

it was love, of course, though I didn't know it then and Finn was both its subject and object. He accepted love instinctively, without responsibility or conditions, like a wild thing glimpsed through trees.

When you read a book, the neurons in your brain fire overtime, deciding what the characters are wearing, how they're standing, and what it feels like the first time they kiss. No one shows you. The words make suggestions. Your brain paints the pictures.