We Do An Epically Bad Job Of

But To Be Perfectly Frank, This Childish Idea That The Author Of A Novel Has Some Special Insight Into The Characters In The Novel ... It's Ridiculous. That Novel Was Composed Of Scratches On A Page, Dear. The Characters Inhabiting It Have No Life Outside Of Those Scratches. What Happened To Them? They All Ceased To Exist The Moment The Novel Ended.

We Can't Love Our Neighbors Till We Know How Crooked Their Hearts Are.

You Say Into My Cracks And I Saw Into Yours.

Grief Doesn't Change You. It Reveals You.

She Never Acted As If She Liked Him All That Much, But Then She Never Acted As If She Liked Anyone All That Much.