Like the morning you walked out of that old house, when you were eighteen and I was, well, I had just turned nineteen, hadn't I? I was a nineteen-year-old and I was in love with Louis and I was in love with you, and I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful as the sight of you walking out a glass door in the early morning, still sleepy, in your underwear. Isn't it strange?

It's the world, you live in it, even if some boy has made a fool of you.

She is not a writer at all, really; she is merely a gifted eccentric.

Please, God, send me something to adore.

a certain bohemian, good-witch sort of charm

we become the stories we tell ourselves

I was not ladylike, nor was I manly. I was something else altogether. There were so many different ways to be beautiful.