Because in a small dark room, a broken child lies on a filthy bed and stares up at a high window.

He waits for me, too.

And I—I who have failed at everything and have failed everyone—I must not, I cannot, I will not fail him.

It's a good thing you and your pills weren't around a few hundred years ago or there never would have been a Vermeer or a Caravaggio. You'd have drugged "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and "The Taking of Christ" right the hell out of them.

Hope is the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard.

On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.

Happiness was useless to me. It was heartache that filled my purse. What happy man has need of Shakespeare?

We're not punished for our sins, lad. We're punished by them.