We moved together very slowly toward the house, trying to understand its ugliness and ruin and shame.

The first book is the book you have to write to get back at your parents; the book you always had in you. Once you get that out of your way, you can start writing books.

I was wondering about my eyes; one of my eyes--the left--saw everything golden and yellow and orange, and the other eye saw shades of blue and grey and green; perhaps one eye was for daylight and the other was for night. If everyone in the world saw different colors from different eyes there might be a great many new colors still to be invented.

There had not been this many words sounded in our house for a long time, and it was going to take a while to clean them out.

Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

All cat stories start with this statement: "My mother, who was the first cat, told me this...

Oh Constance, we are so happy.