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

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

Good writing is rewriting.

What we want most is to be held...and told..that everything (everything is a funny thing, is baby milk and papa's eyes, is roaring logs on a cold morning, is hoot owls and the boy who makes you cry after school, is mama's long hair, is being afraid and twisted faces on the bedroom wall)...is going to be alright.

He loved her, he loved her, and until he'd loved her she had never minded being alone.

So the days, the last days, blow about in a memory, hazy autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I've lived

The problem with living outside the law is that you no longer have its protection.