I don’t want these memories to become slippery, to just disappear into the thin air of life the way most things seem to. I want them to stick – even the bad ones – so I repeat them often.

When the remembering was done, the forgetting could begin.

He felt it too, the air between us, the invisible lines that something or someone had drawn to connect us. That's the way I remember it.

That's how you know you really trust someone, I think; when you don't have to talk all the time to make sure they still like you or prove that you have interesting stuff to say.

I know I shouldn't say this—I know it as surely as I know the earth is round and beats are evil—and yet here it comes: “It's not too late to change your mind.

I don't like to do too much psychological research because it might turn a character into a patchwork.

I have no desire to go back to San Francisco.