There are accounts that, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply.

Nothing [the demon] could think up was half as bad as the stuff [people] thought up themselves. They seemed to have a talent for it. It was built into their design somehow. They were born into a world that was against them in a thousand little ways, and then devoted most of their energies to making it worse.

Things bloosom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.

A novel seemed the easiest way to get what I had had in my head into the inside of other people's heads. Books are good that way.

It's not sipping wine. It's a mourning wine. You drain it. Like this.

The short story is still like the novel's wayward younger brother, we know that it's not respectable - but I think that can also add to the glory of it.

Words can be worrisome, poeple complex, motives and manners unclear, grant her the wisdom to choose her path right, free from unkindness and fear.