“As he entered her, as the piston of lovemaking grew slick with her clear oils, she thought about beingcrushed to death in his arms, and she - thought how odd it was for her to consider such a thing, and howmuch stranger still to consider it without fear and with something very like desire, a melancholy longing, acuriously pleasant anticipation, not a death wish but a sweet resignation,and she knew that Dr. Cauvelwould say this was a sign of her sickness, that now she was preparedto surrender even her ultimateresponsibility(the fundamental responsibility for her own life, for deciding whether or not she wasworthy of life), and he would say that she needed to rely more on herself and less on Max, but she didn'tcare, didn't care at all; she just felt the power, Max's power, and began to call his name, dug her fingersinto his unyielding muscle and surrenderedwillingly.”

“She would have thought that working and living in continuous happiness, harmony, and security day after day would lead to mental lethargy, that her writing would suffer from too much happiness, that she needed a balanced life with down days and miseries to keep the sharp edge on her work. But the idea that an artist needed to suffer to do her best work was a conceit of the young and inexperienced. The happier she grew, the better she wrote.”

“She blinked, sat up, and saw Chris in the bathroom doorway. He'd just gotten out the shower. His hair was damp, and he was dressed only in his briefs. The sight of his thin, boyish body - all ribs and elbows and knees - pulled at her heart, for he looked so innocent and vulnerable. He was so small and fragile that she wondered how she could ever protect him, and renewed fear rose in her.”

“Much of her life had been lived like a balancing act on a spearpoint fence, and on a particularly difficult night when she was twelve, she had decided that instinct was, in fact, the quiet voice of God. Prayers did receive replies, but you had to listen closely and believe in the answer. At twelve, she wrote in her diary: "God doesn't shout; He whispers, and in the whisper is the way.”

“How sweetly he came to her, she thought. Even with his bulk and power, he came to her...sweetly.”

“I fell in love with her for her sense of humour. If she ever lost her sense of humour, I would have to dump her. Then I'd kill myself because I couldn't live without her.”

“She lived for others, her heart tuned to their anguish and their needs.”