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They are glorious pumpkin-skinned messengers. I hate them.

And that girls came to his house all the time, cheap girls from the docks.

Love speaks in silence, on behalf of lovers too tired for words.

Her family was still poor and hungry and scared.

Hear the voice of life telling you something from the inside out.

Wet air. Big windsound in the leaves—a kind of prayer, maybe.

Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

Think how you move, how a room changes with your smallest breath.

She regarded the world calmly without the filter of her suffering.

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.

“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.

Writing to you is like putting a note in a bottle, hoping it will reach Japan.

Yes, Eylon thought, he lied to Cath. Lied about his day, about the risks.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

“I don’t care how tired we are. I’m not not having sex on my wedding night.”

His beauty comes from his power. I am as wary as I am drawn to it.

Definitely believe what you hear about the problems with painkillers.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

The first rule of the house is that everything must be even stevens.

Let him search, Tricia thought, who knew what he might discover.

The writer was there ahead of the world. And that was a great moment . . .

My closet was a repository of foibles and fetishes, an archive of my life history.

She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.