That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive—all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.

There had been a problem in Bean's house. The problem was staples. Bean loved staples. She loved them so much that she had stapled things that weren't supposed to be stapled. The things looked better stapled, but her mother didn't think so, and now Bean was outside.

She was going to be outside for a long time.

He was lying; I could hear it the way you hear a tune and you know how it goes. I wondered how many times I'd heard him lie, to know so well what it sounded like.

Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad books.

I am a grown woman-- mostly-- and I can guzzle champagne with whomever I choose.

If I could have anything I wanted, I would choose story without end, and it seems I have lots of company in that.