“What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?”

“What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. The Beatles. And me.”

“I mean, imagine for a second Olivero Barretto, some nice Italian kid from down the block in Cranston, Rhode Island. He comes to see Mr. Cavilleri, a wage-earning pastry chef of that city, and says, "I would like to marry your only daughter, Jennifer." What would the old man's first question be? (He would not question Barretto's love, since to know Jenny is to love Jenny; it's a universal truth). No, Mr. Cavilleri would say something like, "Barretto, how are you going to support her?”

“What the hell makes you smart?" I asked."I wouldn't go for coffee with you.""Listen - I wouldn't ask you.""That," she replied, "is what makes you stupid.”

“But Anya, you're not any girl, you are someone very special. You have a gift of happiness that's almost magical".To Anya the gentle fluttering of new life within reminded her that Adam had not only been there in Stockholm but would remain with her forever."It is completely possible. Idiopathic reversals of ovarian failure are well documented in the literature.”

“Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living - or that either can be fatal?”

“What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked. "I wouldn't go for coffee with you, " she answered. "Listen -- I wouldn't ask you." "That, "she replied "is what makes you stupid.”