My first published book, Story of a Girl, was the fourth book I wrote.

That's how you know you really trust someone, I think; when you don't have to talk all the time to make sure they still like you or prove that you have interesting stuff to say.

When the reader and one narrator know something the other narrator does not, the opportunities for suspense and plot development and the shifting of reader sympathies get really interesting.

The kind of life I want is to be a person who would get a personal note every day.

Try a little tenderness.

I remember being in high school and listening to Vivaldi's 'Winter' and being so overwhelmed with emotion.

It makes me think of Lazarus. He must have had those shadows after his miracle. You don't spend time in the tomb without it changing you, and everyone who was waiting for you to come out.

I had them all fooled into believing I was normal and well-adjusted, a rock of sensibility who could always be counted on to have a positive attitude.

Life was mostly made up of things you couldn’t control, full of surprises, and they weren’t always good. Life wasn’t what you made it. You were what life made you.

Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

When the remembering was done, the forgetting could begin.

What we are is not all that we may become.

There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles, ” Chiron said. “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?

Betrayal is common for men with no conscience.

Workaholics are energized rather than enervated by their work-their energy paradoxically expands as it is expended.

I feel that there is reason lurking in you somewhere, so we will patiently grope round for it.

New England oysters are better than Chesapeake. But Chesapeake blue crabs are unbeatable.

For the economy itself will die if our ecosystems collapse.

The only limitations one has, are the ones they place on themselves

when it comes to their essential faculty as writers, all writers are androgynous beings.

O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.