If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.

Now he knew why he loved her so. Without ever leaving the ground, she could fly. 'There must be another one like you,' he whispered to her. 'There's got to be at least one more woman like you.

The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar, is the test of their power.

The language must be careful and must appear effortless. It must not sweat. It must suggest and be provocative at the same time.

It was a fine cry - loud and long - but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.

You free. Nothing and nobody is obliged to save you but you.

Nobody loved her and she wouldn’t have liked it if they had, she considered love a serious disability.