I find the public passion for justice quite boring and artificial.

January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: [...]Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester's bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define.

My imagination functions much better when I don't have to speak to people.

How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.

Robert Walker as Bruno was excellent. He had elegance and humor, and the proper fondness for his mother

Every man is his own law court and punishes himself enough.

Honestly, I don't understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!