That summer when she was eighteen, it seemed anything could happen, anything at all.

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

But there are still the hours, aren't there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there's another.

We’d hoped for love of a different kind, love that knew and forgave our human frailty but did not miniaturize our grander ideas of ourselves.

Take me with you. I want a doomed love. I want streets at night, wind and rain, no one wondering where I am.

What I wanted to do seemed simple. I wanted something alive and shocking enough that it could be a morning in somebody's life. The most ordinary morning. Imagine, trying to do that.

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