Into the night, in the dark, he lay beside her, listening to her breathe. He knew the varied and sundry reasons a man would kill. But none were more fierce, none were more vital than to hold safe what he loved.

She could and had faced an armed laser in the hands of a mad mutant mercenary with less fear than she faced such unswerving emotion.

She surrounded herself with books at work and at home. Her living space was a testament to her first and abiding love with shelves jammed with books tables crowded with them. She saw them not only as knowledge entertainment comfort even sanity but as a kind of artful decoration.

I don't think I am a traditional romantic who thinks about candlelight dinners and wonders if my husband is going to bring me flowers, though I'm delighted if he does. I'm more practical-minded. I find it incredibly romantic that my husband does the dishes.

If you don't step forward, you're always in the same place.

Love didn't run on logic. It didn't follow neat lines or a list of priorities.

Nature will kill you without a minute's thought, and in nastier ways than a crazy guy with agun. It doesn't make her any less beautiful.