She had such unusual eyes. They made me think of the seaside, and so I called her Ocean, and could not have told you why.

Agnes was the worst prophet that's ever existed. Because she was always right. That's why the book never sold.

Classic authors should be older than I am, and wiser, and on-top of all their deadlines.

I'm somebody who considers happiness a journey, not a destination.

There was nowhere they could have gone and they went there anyway.

She had the feeling that the door was looking at her, which she knew was silly, and knew on a deeper level was somehow true.

There are little pockets of old time in London, where things and places stay the same, like bubbles in amber,” she explained. “There’s a lot of time in London, and it has to go somewhere—it doesn’t all get used up at once.” “I may still be hung over,” sighed Richard. “That almost made sense.