“Female readers, on the other hand, were unmoved by the book, one of them going so far as to give it the ultimate insult on a well-trafficked book blog: She "flung it across the room.”

“Because that was the problem, really, wasn’t it, with being human? You couldn’t just be, couldn’t just live and exist without dragging your feet through the mud. You had to communicate, congregate, collaborate, cohabiate. You had to corroborate. Copulate. You had to co-this, co-that, co—bloody-everything, and if you weren’t co-operating you were operating with the co, which was a declaration less of independence than of relativity. You could only really exist in relation to others.”

“Stories are how we make sense of our lives. To tell a story is to own it: to own the narrative thread to own a piece of our past. And when we own a story when we put it in a tidy box and store it on a high shelf it becomes manageable so that whatever negative effects it's been having on us are in theory lessened.”

“My truth she'd said to him. What the hell is truth anyway Two separate questions yes. But not wholly unrelated. For truth no matter the modifier is always intrinsically modified.”

“I loved to press the shutter, to freeze time, to turn little slices of life into rectangle rife with metaphor.”

“...if we have to, we can do anything. We are strong, and when one of us isn't feeling all that invincible, the other will always take the wheel. We are women.”

“We kissed each other, long and deep, while my legs opened like the covers of a book.”