At the risk, then, of being shunned by some of my gloomier peers, I venture to tell you that writers work like demons, suffer greatly, and are also happy, in unmistakable ways, some of the time. If we had no knowledge of happiness, our novels wouldn't sufficiently resemble real life. Some of us are even made a little bit happy, on occasion, by the writing process itself. I mean, really, if there wasn't some sort of enjoyment to be derived, would any of us keep doing it?

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

There is a beauty in the world, though it's harsher than we expect it to be.

Insomniacs know better than anyone how it would be to haunt a house.

What does it mean to regret when you have no choice? It's what you can bear. And there it is... It was death. I chose life.

You want to give him the book of his own life, the book that will locate him, parent him, arm him for the changes.

If you've really loved a book, or a movie for that matter, really loved it, what you want is that same book again, but as if you've never read it. And when you get something unfamiliar, you feel betrayed.