For me, a novel relying too heavily on a single idea might be a dry, deadly thing unless it possesses an animating force.

It seemed that everywhere you went, people quickly adapted to the way they had to live, and called it Life.

To be anorexic...she thought, amounted to wanting to shed yourself of some of the imperfect mosaic of pieces that made you who you were. She could understand that now for, maybe underneath that desquamated self you would locate a new version.

This post-college world felt different from everything that had come before it.

And I also know that pain can seem like an endless ribbon. You pull it and you pull it. You keep gathering it toward you, and as it collects, you really can't believe that there's something else at the end of it. Something that isn't just more pain. But there's always something else at the end; something at least a little different. You never know what that thing will be, but it's there.

Books light the fire-whether it's a book that's already written, or an empty journal that needs to be filled in.

I have never been much of a researcher