“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.”

“God does not shout; He whispers, and in that whisper is the way." Chyna Shepard in "Intensity”

“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.”

“Although she had resisted this knowledge all her life, had lived determinedly in the future focused there by ambition, she understood at last that this was the real condition of humanity: The dance of life occurred not yesterday or tomorrow, but only here at the still point that was the present. This truth is simmple, sel-evident, but difficult to accept, for we sentimentalize the past and wallow in it, while we endure the moment and in every waking hour dream of the future.”

“I warned myself against the danger of compassion in this case. How easy it would be to imagine the traumas of childhood that might have deformed her into the moral monster she had become, and then to convince myself that those traumas could be balanced - and their effects reversed - by sufficient acts of kindness.”

“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.”

“When she had delight in her heart, her face transcended all her suffering, whereupon the scars and the deformed features and the mottled skin became the remarkable face of a hero and the cherished face of a friend.”