We’re all works in progress, honey. And believe me when I tell you that I’ve had to work harder than most.

If I told you, you might be forced to lie about it. Not that you aren't really good at it, but why put an old man in that position?

You're beautiful, every part of you. I love your hair, the way it looks, the way it feels. I love touching it, smelling it. I love the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh. It makes me laugh, too, every time. And I love watching you eat. Sometimes you can't shovel it in fast enough, but when you get interested in a conversation, you forget there's anything in front of you. God knows, I love making love with you. I can't even talk about that without wanting you. I love your pathetic attachment to those seniors. I love how hard you work.

I take every opportunity I can to speak to librarians.

Fear goes hand-in-hand with artistic creation, and no amount of success will make the fear go away entirely.

You try spending six months sitting at somebody's bedside, waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn't one of God's good gifts.

I never thought I'd have to give you-a former Sunday School teacher-a lecture on ethics." "Former Sunday School teachers don't go around without their underwear." "You show me where it says that in the Bible.