The sight of one's own heart is degrading; people are not meant to look inward - that's why they've been given bodies, to hide their souls.

God! Whose hand was I holding?

She had taken to wondering lately, during these swift-counted years, what had been done with all those wasted summer days; how could she have spent them so wantonly? I am foolish, she told herself early every summer, I am very foolish; I am grown up now and know the values of things. Nothing is ever really wasted, she believed sensibly, even one's childhood, and then each year, one summer morning, the warm wind would come down the city street where she walked and she would be touched with the little cold thought: I have let more time go by.

I shall weave a suit of leaves. At once. With acorns for buttons.

I have always loved to use fear, to take it and comprehend it and make it work and consolidate a situation where I was afraid and take it whole and work from there.

All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down.

I would have to find something else to bury here and I wished it could be Charles.