Jay Sebring cut my hair a couple of times.

But it's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.

You can’t give your heart to a wild thing.

You can love somebody without it being like that. You keep them a stranger, a stranger who's a friend.

[Y]outh is hardly human: it can't be, for the young never believe they will die...especially would they never believe that death comes, and often, in forms other than the natural one.

Maybe the older you grow and the less easy it is to put thought into action, maybe that’s why it gets all locked up in your head and becomes a burden.

June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone.