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His eyes rested on the trees. By George, it’s like the garden of Eden.

The baby in her belly is not a sibling, will never be their playmate.

Maybe that’s what she feels, not stranded, but suspended in time.

I’m not afraid of dying. I’ve died on camera before. It’s not so bad.

You quickly find nothing interests people so much as themselves.

I never entered no-man’s-land by any light brighter than the palest moon.

People assume married cartoonists are laughing all the time.

Marshall and Mrs. Checchi, it seemed, had this philosophy in common.

If you play, decide three things: the rules, stakes, and quitting time.

I find lost prayers in the tiny edging around buttonholes.

A letter is like a poem, showing the marks of an unwilling composer.

Mentors can suggest to you what more you are capable of.

They’d developed Santa’s entire system, had written the code.

Before April rings the chime, she forces her way up out of herself.

That Hawaiian shirt is the first thing Ratso’s owned that he hasn’t stolen.

The success is deserved, I think: certainly it was not lightly gained.

If the kind hearts had fat purses, how much better everything would go!

His shirt, he realized, was completely soaked, and he could actually see his heart rippling beneath the cotton.

Heaven preserve me from the Epidemic of a Proud Ignorance!

I believe you get to see a sunset once. Death, well, I’ve lost count.

The future of the book began to appear among imaginary woods.

He looked a look of vicious happiness and eagerly pried the watch open.

I wanted to be a citizen of the empire called American Express.

Susan Ann so wants to be that girl—daring, free, divinely sensual.

What’s the most useful criticism you’ve received? “Keep writing.”

Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.

Love is the difference between a full life and an empty one.

I’ve read this novel at various stages of my life and I feel as if I know Isabel.

I’m a big fan of then. A novel needs a lot of thens.