“You know...my flower...I'm responsible for her. And she's so weak! And so naive. She has four ridiculous thorns to defend her against the world...”

“You know–my flower, I am responsible for her. She doesn’t even have four thorns to protect herself from harm.’ (Zarek)Why do you love that book so? (Astrid)Because I want to hear the bells when I look up at the sky. I want to laugh, but I don’t know how. (Zarek)”

“I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naive. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons...”

“There was… uh, in my book, you know,” her legs moved against his and she finished so low he barely heard her, “a really good sex scene.”

“she's lazy, so i'm not sure when she had time to build that wall she has surrounding her.”

“There seemed something rather devotional about her pose, the still­ness, so that I thought at last, She is praying!, and made to draw my eyes away in sudden shame. But then she stirred. Her hands opened, she raised them to her cheek, and I caught a flash of colour against the pink of her work-roughened palms. She had a flower there, between her fingers—a violet, with a drooping stem. As I watched, she put the flower to her lips, and breathed upon it, and the purple of the petals gave a quiver and seemed to glow . . .”