That's the thing about fiction, that you live in it totally for a little while, but you must forget it, sometimes totally forget it, in order to go about the rest of your day.

Some of these things are true and some of them lies. But they are all good stories.

Stories are the wildest things of all, the monster rumbled. Stories chase and bite and hunt.

She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy.

I began to think that he had just the right measure of unhappiness and dissatisfaction with life to be someone I could get along with.

And I knew that it was possible he wasn't entirely right for me, but I also knew, in some way, that probably no one was right for me and potentially no one was right for anyone, but I also felt, with uncharacteristic sincerity, that we were as right for each other as any two people could manage.