If you don't read for pleasure, you'll lose your edge as a writer.

Alone in her shelter, she allowed herself tears. When her shelter cooled to the touch she called to Gull, “Coming out!” She eased her head out into the smoky air, looked over at Gull. She imaged they both looked like a couple of sweaty, parboiled turtles climbing out of their shells. “Hello, gorgeous.” She laughed. It hurt her throat, but she laughed. “Hey, handsome.

Listen carefully. I'd crush you like a bug for causing my wife one single moment of pain. Believe it. Fear it.

You have to trust or you're only living half a life.

Oh, God. God, isn't that perfect? He's Dad. He's Dad with a layer of nerd. Solid, steady, chipping away so patiently, you don't even know you've had your shields hacked down until you're defenseless. It's the type." "You're not in love with a type, you're in love with a man," Penny corrected. "Or you're not.

Do you believe in reincarnation?...I was wondering why some connections seem so easy, so natural, as if they'd already been made and are getting picked up again.

If you don't read for pleasure, you'll lose your edge as a writer.