“...but for the Girl Writing A Letter these things don't matter, she's got a beer in her free hand, she's on the road, she's real and she's in love.”

“Surely,' she said, much quieter, more reasonable, 'surely you've been with other women?'His glance at her was dry. 'What do you think?'She looked away at random. 'I think that it appears we have a double standard, here. Men can have sex, women can't. Who, then, do the men have sex with?”

“What a lot we lost when we stopped writing letters. You can't reread a phone call.”

“And when she at last came out, her eyes were dry. Her parents stared up from their silent breakfast at her. They both started to rise but she put a hand out, stopped them. ‘I can care for myself, please,’ and she set about getting some food. They watched her closely. In point of fact, she had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, and an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering. She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. She didn’t seem to care. ‘You’re all right?’ her mother asked. Buttercup sipped her cocoa. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You’re sure?’ her father wondered. ‘Yes,’ Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. ‘But I must never love again.’ She never did.”

“She that was ever fair and never proud,Had tongue at will and yet was never loud,Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay,Fled from her wish and yet said 'Now I may,'She that being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly,She that in wisdom never was so frailTo change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;She that could think and ne'er disclose her mind,See suitors following and not look behind,She was a wight, if ever such wight were,--DESDEMONA: To do what?IAGO: To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.”

“She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used.”

“She likes herself, yet others hates / For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets / She is the thing that she despises.”