All these men who loved Emma, I think. For all her problems, men were fixated on her. Will anyone ever feel like that about me?

Life is simply too short to live it less perfectly than it could be lived.

But I know he loves me. I know he needs our games, that they answer some deep-seated hunger in him.

Sometimes it's as if I can shrink away to nothing. Sometimes I feel as pure and perfect as a ghost. The hunger, the headaches, the dizziness—these are the only things that are real.

I know it must look odd, given that I didn't even know Emma. But it seems to me that almost no one really knew her. Everyone I speak to has a different version of what she was like.

We're all connected now, I think as I send it off into cyberspace. Everyone and everything.

I feel a thrill of excitement at this first tiny glimpse of self-revelation, of intimacy.

Every adversity serves a divine purpose.

Faithful prayer!

My insides contract- bad. "who are you?" I ask right out loud. And he says what I've been afraid of since I killed Lester's father. Haven't you guessed? I'm you. The real you.

I don't know what it is with Finnick and bread, but he seems obsessed with handling it.

The big one was at least cute, and as annoying as she was, you couldn't get mad at a golden retriever.

If our petitions are in accordance with His will and if we seek His glory in the asking the answers will come in ways that will astonish us and fill our hearts with songs of thanksgiving.

There were riots in just about every game we played with Syracuse.

How was I supposed to know what's real and what's not? It feels like I'm the only one who doesn't know the difference.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

I grew up in a Jewish family, and we have raised our children in a Jewish tradition. Religion gives a framework for moral enquiry in young minds and points us to questions beyond the material.