...the heart is an organ of fire.

Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.

A love story is not about those who lost their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past.

This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.

There's a lot of thievery involved in writing. You're breaking into other people's spaces and other people's stories.

She lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle. Light lifts itself onto her shoulders. She is on her knees. She puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur. She imagines she slap breathes in light.

I promised to tell you how one falls in love.