Words on the page are never prisoners of the page

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.

I want my life to be mystifying," she declared, although she didn't know what she meant.

There is nothing that is more beautiful than everything else in the world.

There's fire in my fingers. I burn everything I touch.

I suppose that's what happens when you make other people's lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.

She had witnessed the world's most beautiful things, and allowed herself to grow old and unlovely. She had felt the heat of a leviathan's roar, and the warmth within a cat's paw. She had conversed with the wind and had wiped soldier's tears. She had made people see, she'd seen herself in the sea. Butterflies had landed on her wrists, she had planted trees. She had loved, and let love go. So she smiled.