..this indiscriminate love feels entirely serious to her, as if everything in the world is part of a vast, inscrutable intention and everything in the world has its own secret name, a name that cannot be conveyed in language but is simply the sight and feel of the thing itself.

Love is deep, a mystery - who wants to understand its every particular?

I feel like there's something terrible and wonderful and amazing that's just beyond my grasp. I have dreams about it. I do dream, by the way. It hovers over me at odd moments. And then it's gone. I feel like I'm always on the brink of something that never arrives. I want to either have it or be free of it.

One always has a better book in one's mind than one can manage to get onto paper.

What she wants to say has to do not only with joy but with the penetrating, constant fear that is joy's other half.

I just don't feel much interested in the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Perhaps, in the extravagance of youth, we give away our devotions easily and all but arbitrarily, on the mistaken assumption that we’ll always have more to give.