“He was my darkness & I was his light.We couldn't exist without each other.”

“A great weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. Ben wasn’t what I wanted or needed. I wanted someone who knew me, the real me. I needed the person who knew all my secrets and fears. I wanted a person who lived and fought passionately. I wanted my best friend.”

“Ryder Delaney was the one imperfection in my life.He was the bad boy,black sheep,the one your mother always warned you about.He had only one hard-and-fast rule-Don't Fall In Love”

“Hey, we live each day, start each day, as if we had an endless number stretching out ahead of us. We don't, but that's how one has to face the day, right? I see an analogy with writing fiction: the story at hand probably won't come off well, and even if it does, it probably won’t get published, but if it does there won't be any payment for it - and even if there is, almost nobody will read it, and most who do won't understand or like it. But you go ahead and write the story. What choices do you have? There's always silence, but that won't do for me.” - Gordon Weaver (who is suddenly my hero, even though I don't know who he is).”

“Service without spirituality is exhausting and hopeless. But . . . spirituality without service is barren and selfish.”

“You’ll drive a saint into chaining you to the bed,” Jack muttered, and then trying not to let his annoyance show, he continued, “The sex is good. No, wait. Sex with you blows my fucking mind. You’re smart, sexy and sassy—you don’t take shit from me— and I crave to be with you even when all my survival instincts tell me to run the other way. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking laid eyes on.” He grasped both her hands and brought them together over his chest. “Now, Miss Pierce, will you stay until Friday?”Maia burst into laughter. “Okay, that will do. I’ll stay until Friday.”Jack exhaled a breath of relief. “Thank God, I thought I’d have to start quoting fucking Byron. What time do you want me to take you to Baltimore?”

“He challenged the world with his genius, and the world defeated him by ignoring the challenge and starving him. He stopped writing because he had failed and because he had no choice but to accept the world’s terms: there is no mystery here. This was not insanity, but common sense.”