This is the story of my life: standing on the edges of things and worrying, when I'm supposed to just walk through them.

I have a sort of . . . thing, I suppose, for certain words. They spark inside me, somehow, turning me to touchpaper, but I don't know what they are until someone says them.

I thought of Marius. Wild, wonderful, Byronic-fantasy Marius, who had somehow found something he wanted in the everyday quietness of me. Until he hadn't.

In daylight and up close, he was merciless, all smiles and freckles, the brightest, boldest flame a moth could wish for.

His attention. Sweet and intense at the same time. Like a barley sugar I could untwist from its plastic and hold in my mouth. A flood of secret pleasure.

I'm not trying to upset you. I just think it's about time you move

Thank you, " I said bravely, dropping the syllables cleanly, like marbles, and secretly full of the most pathetic pride imaginable. I had spoken to strangers.

love yourself first, and you will always be in love.

An archaeologist is the best husband a woman can have. The older she gets, the more interested he is in her.

To not be optimistic about the human race, would be a disregard of the power of the Spirit who created All

They are les misérables - the outcasts, the underdogs. And who is to blame? Is it not the most fallen who have most need of charity?

Everyone is fragile. Everything beautiful is fragile

I hope to God I don't win an Oscar tomorrow night. It would really depress me if I did. I really don't deserve it. It wasn't that important a part anyhow.

It costs nothing to say something kind. Even less to shut up altogether.

I can rap in a London accent, make weird faces, wear spandex, wigs, and black lipstick. I can be more creative than the average male rapper.

I think the American public has gone from really almost white-hot anger in 2010 to an anxiety knowing their government needs to work.