A Broken Heart Is Never A Tragedy.

Reading A Book Is Like Re-writing It For Yourself.

His Wedding Gift, Clasped Round My Throat. A Choker Of Rubies, Two Inches Wide, Like An Extraordinarily Precious Slit Throat.

In A Secular Age, An Authentic Miracle Must Purport To Be A Hoax, In Order To Gain Credit In The World.

Just Because We're Sisters Under The Skin Doesn't Mean We've Got Much In Common.

He Is The Intermediary Between Us, His Audience, The Living, And They, The Dolls, The Undead, Who Cannot Live At All And Yet Who Mimic The Living In Every Detail Since, Though They Cannot Speak Or Weep, Still They Project Those Signals Of Signification We Instantly Recognize As Language.