No one, not even lovers, are truly psychic, and everyone flounders around each other, misunderstanding, misinterpreting, sending out confusing signals.

No one, not even lovers, are truly psychic, and everyone flounders around each other, misunderstanding, misinterpreting, sending out confusing signals.

I have been writing now for over a week. I find it cleansing, refreshing; it is good for me.” (p.531)

We had given it a name, a substance, and somehow, in doing that, we had condemned ourselves.

If life is a battle, then my inner scars are medals for valor, for swiftness, for courage, for passion. Evil is the dark-haired brother of Good; they walk hand in hand—always.

Being a child is such a shining gift, yet we don't know how precious it is until it's worn out and gone away.

There is a point when facing the unknown stops being a longed-for adventure and becomes a terrifying reality.